Ben cracks a smile that eases something in my chest.
He bends to retrieve the gun, brushing off a few specks of dust. “This is why we practice with it unloaded. Here, try again.”
I nod sheepishly, taking it back. This time, I keep my finger off the trigger and the muzzle low, aimed toward the ground.
“Much better,” he says, and there’s real praise in it.
We spend the next half hour walking through loading and unloading the magazine, chambering a round, clearing the weapon. Basically, everything I’d need to know to safely handle it. His instructions are calm, patient, methodical. He never rushes, never talks down to me. Every step is measured, like he’s building a foundation he actually wants me to rely on.
Once he’s satisfied, he pulls out a set of earmuffs for eachof us. They’re sleek, noise-reducing headphones that block the sharp crack of gunfire but still let us hear each other.
As I slide mine on, I realize something. I’m not just learning to shoot. I’m taking back control.
He sets up a few close-range targets and demonstrates how to aim. When he pulls the trigger, even with the ear protection, the shot makes me jump. It's loud, much louder than I expected, and final in a way that makes my heart knock against my ribs.
Ben gestures for me to try next.
The moment I take the gun, my hands start to shake. I grip tighter, willing them steady, but my whole body feels unmoored. It takes longer than it should to psyche myself up, and when I finally shoot, the bullet sails wide. No surprise there.
Ben doesn’t sigh or correct me or look disappointed. He just gives a small nod, calm as ever, and says, “Try again.”
I do. Again. And again.
By the fourth or fifth shot, something clicks into place. My muscles start to remember how to hold steady, how to breathe through it. When I hit the first target dead-on, pride blooms in my chest like fire. I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. It’s huge. Giddy even. Ben catches it and smiles back.
We stay out there until I empty two full magazines. My arms ache, and my ears still ring, but I feel like I conquered something. Like maybe I’m a little less powerless than I was this morning.
“You did great for your first time,” Ben says as we start cleaning up the clearing. “One or two more sessions, and I think you’ll be confident enough to handle a gun in an emergency. The goal is for it to become instinct. So you don’t have to think, just act.”
“I liked it,” I admit. “I know this is about self-defense, but... I don’t know. It felt good. Like I accomplished something.”
There’s a beat of silence before I ask, quieter now, “Has there been any word on Joe?”
Ben’s expression hardens. “Nothing.” He shakes his head. “Man vanished without a trace. But I hope, God do Ihope, he’s run. I hope he got scared and left the country, because I don’t ever want him near you again. After what he did to your mother...”
He trails off. The silence that falls is heavy.
I nod slowly, even though I don’t share his optimism. Joe doesn’t strike me as someone who walks away from unfinished business. He’s too twisted. Too proud. There’s a dark little whisper in the back of my mind that says he won’t stop until I’m gone too.
Ben must notice something shift in my expression, because he changes the subject gently.
“I wasn’t sure how to bring this up,” he says, “but the Bureau has contracts with a few excellent therapists in the area. If you ever want to talk to someone—really talk—they’re there. Judgment-free. Anonymous.”
“I’m fine,” I reply automatically. Too fast.
“You’re not,” he says evenly. “You fidget when you’re nervous. You flinch at loud noises. You keep your back to the wall, and you scan every room, identifying the exits, like you’re just waiting for a threat. You have nightmares.”
That last one makes me pause, catching me off guard. “You know?”
Ben gives a small nod. “Your room’s right upstairs. You’re not as quiet as you think.” He hesitates, then adds, “You’ve got all the signs of PTSD, Lina. I know you don’t want to talk tome, and I will respect that. But I’ve been in law enforcement for a longtime. I know the signs. If Joe was beating on your mom, I can’t imagine he left you untouched.”
My jaw tightens. I look down at my hands. “You’re not wrong,” I whisper.
It’s the first time I’ve admitted it out loud.
Ben doesn’t say anything right away. He crouches beside the stump, packing away the Glock, like he knows not to crowd me.
“I’m here,” he says after a moment. “Whenever you’re ready. Or if you never are, that’s okay too. I just need you to know you’re not alone in this, alright?”
