She shuffles her feet apart.
"Lean into me," I instruct.
She hesitates.
"Ivy. Lean back. Trust that I will hold you."
She leans back. Her back presses fully against my chest. I am her wall. I am her support. The intimacy of it is staggering. We are fitted together like puzzle pieces, my hardness against her softness.
I slide my hands down her arms, correcting her grip.
"Thumbs forward," I murmur, adjusting her fingers on the polymer grip. "High on the beavertail. Good. Now, don't lock your elbows. Keep them soft. The gun is an extension of your body, not a separate entity."
My hands cover hers completely. Her hands are so small inside mine.
"Look at the target," I say. "Focus on the front sight. The blurry man in the distance doesn't matter. Only the sight matters."
"I can't do this," she whispers, her breathing shallow. "I can't shoot a person."
"It’s paper," I say. "But if a man comes through that door to take you... to take you back to a basement... you will shoot him. You will shoot him in the chest, and you will watch him fall, and you will feel nothing but relief."
I feel a shudder run through her.
"Breathe," I command. "Inhale... exhale. Squeeze the trigger on the empty lungs. Don't pull it. Squeeze it. Like a lover’s hand."
"Silas..."
"Do it."
I step back, removing my support but staying close enough to catch her.
She stands there, holding the heavy steel. Her arms are shaking.
Then, she steadies.
She takes a breath. She holds it.
BANG.
The sound rips through the quiet morning, violent and absolute. The gun kicks up. Ivy stumbles back a step, gasping.
We look at the target.
She hit the shoulder. Not a kill shot, but a disabling one.
"Again," I say.
"My hand hurts."
"Again."
She fires again.BANG.
Closer to the center.
"Again."
BANG. BANG. BANG.
