His father’s 20-gauge side-by-side, stock worn smooth as worry beads. His own deer rifle, a .30-06 that had dropped a buck in the aspen grove behind the house every fall for twenty years. The .22 plinker Leo would learn on, God willing, next summer. Each click of the rubber-coated bars as he nestled the guns into place felt like a small, necessary sacrament.
Last week, Leo turned nine. Frank taught him the combination. Leo’s small, serious fingers spun the dial to 17-32-07, and he opened the door on his own for the first time. Inside, Frank had cleared a shelf. On it lay a new box of .22 cartridges, a rabbit’s foot on a lanyard, and a note. field and stream gun cabinet
And that, Frank figured, was the whole point. His father’s 20-gauge side-by-side, stock worn smooth as