He picks up the handgun first. In his hands, it looks like an extension of his body. He checks the chamber, drops the magazine, reseats it, racks the slide—one fluid motion that speaks of thousands of hours of repetition.
"Glock 19." Instructor voice. Flat, stripped of anything personal. "Standard issue for half the police forces in the world. Reliable. Simple. No external safety lever to fumble with when your fine motor skills go to shit."
He hands it to me.
Heavier than I expected. Cold. Dense, like a condensed brick of violence sitting in my palm.
"Grip is everything." He moves behind me. The heat of his body radiates against my back, but he doesn't touch me. Not yet. "High on the tang. Web of your hand jammed right up under the slide. Wrap your fingers. Now support hand—fill the gap on the grip. Thumbs forward."
My hands feel clumsy. Too small for the weapon.
"No." He steps in, his chest brushing my shoulder blades. Hands cover mine, rough and calloused. He physically molds my grip, forcing my fingers into position. "Squeeze. Harder. You're shaking hands with death. It's not a business partner. Lock it in."
His voice is right at my ear—intimate and terrifyingly clinical at once.
"Stance. Feet shoulder-width. Knees bent. Aggressive. Lean into it."
I adjust my feet.
"More." He taps my right leg with his boot. "Lean forward. If you stand straight, the recoil will knock you back. You control the weapon. It doesn't control you."
I lean in, ridiculous as a child playing soldier.
"Align the sights." He steps back. "Front sight in the notch. Focus on the front sight. The target should be blurry. The gun should be clear."
Down the barrel: the metal notch, the tin can on a stump twenty feet away.
"Finger on the trigger. Smooth press. Don't anticipate the bang. Let it surprise you."
I take a breath. Hold it. Squeeze.
CRACK.
The sound is a physical slap even with the foam plugs. The gun jumps, recoil traveling up my arms to my shoulders.
Dirt sprays five feet to the left of the stump.
"You flinched." Instant, clinical. "Pushed the muzzle down because you knew the kick was coming."
"It's loud." I lower the gun. Heart hammering.
"It's a gun. It's supposed to be loud. Again."
I raise it. Align. Squeeze.
CRACK.
Dirt kicks up to the right.
"Again."
CRACK.
High.
"Again."
CRACK.
