What if next time, Wyatt’s not with me?
So on Saturday morning, over breakfast, I ask, “Will you teach me how to use a gun?”
“Why?” he asks after a long pause. “And just to be clear, I’m not saying no. I just want to make sure you’re asking for the right reasons.”
“I’m asking because I don’t want to feel helpless again. Because I want to know how to protect myself. You’ve given me safety. I want to know how to hold on to it.”
His shoulders relax slightly, and something flickers in his eyes. Respect. Pride.
“Then yeah,” he says. “I’ll teach you.”
We head behind the cabin, the mountains rising like silent guards around us, the air sharp enough to bite.
“This isn’t about being ready for a fight,” Wyatt says. “This is about knowing how to protect yourself if one ever finds you.”
He opens a weathered metal case and pulls out a small pistol. It’s matte black and compact. Simple and clean, no frills.
He doesn’t hand it to me. Instead, he holds it carefully, angled away, and explains.
“This is a Glock 43. Nine-millimeter. Good for beginners because it’s lightweight and has less recoil, but still enough stopping power to matter.”
“This is the chamber.” He slides it open so I can see it’s empty. “Safety’s here. Always check it first. Always treat it like it’s loaded.”
I nod.
He shows me how to release the magazine, reload, and check the chamber again. Every move is deliberate. Controlled.
“The kick will surprise you,” he adds. “Use both hands. Thumbs parallel. Arms firm but not stiff.”
He shifts into a firing stance and takes one clean shot at the old tree stump they use for target practice.
“Now you.”
I take the pistol in both hands. It’s heavier than I expected. I glance at him. He doesn’t crowd me as he adjusts my elbows gently.
“Lean in a little. Your body absorbs the force better that way.”
He moves behind me for guidance and rests one palm lightly on the center of my back.
I aim.
Breathe.
Pull the trigger.
The kick jolts me.
He steadies me before I can stumble. “That’s why two hands,” he murmurs. “You’re doing fine.”
I try again. And again. Each shot is steadier than the last.
By the fourth, I’m not flinching.
By the sixth, I’m breathing easier.
“You’re a natural,” he says softly.
I glance at him, a grin tugging at the corner of my mouth. “You’re just saying that because I’m the one holding the gun.”
