I sit on my bed. So far, “The Wonderful Wizard of Oz,” is looking nothing like the movie. Toto nearly fell out the cellar door while the house was flying. And the shoes are silver! What’s up with that?

“They were flexing their color cameras with that,” explains 35. “Red is more flashy than silver.”

Makes sense.

“Also, be prepared. This isn’t a dream like in the movie. It takes place over like two to six weeks, not the one day like the movie implies.”

Whelp. This is going to take a while to read.

“Relax. They do a bit of time skipping. Law of Conservation of Detail. It’s hard to fill that many days with that many important details.”

“Law of Conservation of Detail?” I ask.

“Yeah, you don’t add details to stories that don’t add to them. Or at least have the potential to. It’s why nobody is mentioned to go to the bathroom unless they’re about to die, or it’s a comedy, or there’s something important about it.”

“Like dealing with the invasion of privacy?” I ask with a bit of snark.

“Yeah, I guess that would qualify,” they say, clearly getting what I’m implying.

Imagine the nightmare if someone was writing a story about me! Wait, they still can! Biographies are a thing! Or even…autobiographies? I’d be sure to leave that part out!

My attention is turned away from the book, and I don’t want to read it anymore. Not how I want to spend my day off from school.

I can tell 35 feels my boredom.

“How long as it been?” they ask. “Like, a week?”

“What’s been a week?” I’m confused.

“Since you started talking to your classmates again.”

“Oh, right.” I think for a second. “I think that was the twentieth?”

“Was it?”

“Has to be,” I insist. “I’ve had another Monday since then.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” They blink twice. “I’m sorry, I guess I’m not good with remembering dates.”

“Well, neither am I!” I retort. “But somehow, I remembered!”

“Give it ten years, kid. You won’t be able to remember if the nuclear detonation was yesterday or last week.”

I scoff and roll my eyes. They sound just like Dad! I do NOT need another “Dad” right now.

I put the book away, and move over to my computer desk.

“Has it really been two weeks?” they ask, not believing it.

I just say “Yep.”

“Wow.”

They don’t say a word as I pull up my internet games, but I can tell they’re thinking about something. I’m about to start playing as soon as they speak again.

“If it’s really been two weeks, then maybe I can teach you how to astral project, like I can.”

I turn around to face them. Excitement grows in me. No way! Are they serious?

“Yes, I am serious,” they answer my silent question. “You’ve been acting trustworthy this whole time. You’ve kept your promise not to talk to Tiffany about me, so maybe I should, just like I promised.”

Before I can say anything else, Dad barges in, holding a piece of paper.

“Hey Kemosabe, you got a minute? I want to talk about your grades.”

Uh-oh.

“Especially in English. You have only one ‘A’ this semester so far, the rest are ‘B’s, and you have a ‘C’ in English. That’s what I want to talk about.”

I freeze. Almost swallow. My eyes drop to the floor right next to dad. He is not happy. There’s a “boom” in his voice he uses whenever he starts to get angry. This is not going to be good.

“Is this fucker distracting you?” he gestures towards 35. “Is he sabotaging your studies?”

“That is an outrageous accusation!” retorts 35 with a voice that collides with Dad’s. “If anything, I’ve been taking notes whenever your kid has a space out moment in class.”

“Bullshit, you don’t do that!” Dad exclaims.

“It-it’s true,” I weakly stutter. “They have.”

He scoffs. “Clearly not. Otherwise, you would know that you don’t use the word ‘they’ to refer to a single person.”

“You might wanna tell Mr. Mancini that,” 35 advises.

“What are you talking about?” Dad asks, confused but still angry.

“He straight up said that ‘they’ works for ambiguity, even for a single person. Right, kid?”

I glance at 35. I glance at Dad. I stare down at the floor. I don’t want to say anything. I don’t want to make this worse, so I say nothing.

“Right?”

Do I say anything? Should I say something?

I don’t. I just silently nod.

“Wow,” says Dad.  His voice lowers and softens, losing the “boom” it had a second ago. “He really told you that? No wonder you’ve got a ‘C,’ he must be confusing you!”

Actually, not really, but I don’t dare argue anything. Anything to get him to calm down.

“In that case, I’ll talk with the school as soon as I can. In the meantime, keep doing your best.”

He relaxes. Whew.

“The rest of your grades could be better, but are not too bad, you’ve got time to recover between now and the end of the semester. So how about we go train you on my .338? I’ll set up a shooting table and a recoil sled for you.”

I perk up. “Really?”

“Yeah sure. Just get your jeans and boots on, and we’ll head out to Land’s End as soon as possible. It’s gonna be dusty out there.”

“Sweet!” I eagerly exclaim. “Just give me five minutes!”

“I’m going to need more than that,” says Dad. “Meet me at the truck when you’re ready.”

“Okay!”

“Shouldn’t we talk with the FBI about this first?” asks 35.

“Why would we do that?” asks Dad.

“Because I’m tether-bound to someone you’re about to give a rifle?” they answer. “And you do not trust me.”

“You can stay home with my wife and daughter. That should keep you out of trouble.”

“Yeah, but I can get yanked back into that body almost instantly, by my will, or that of my host. We could be on the other side of the planet from each other. Doesn’t matter. Still instant.”

Dad doesn’t say anything for a short period of time before admitting that he should call first. He walks out of my room without closing the door.

“Maybe teaching you how to project can wait,” thinks 35. “Especially for a time when your dad is not around.”

“Yeah, that makes sense,” I agree. Best not to risk making him mad again.

I walk to my closet to put on jeans. It’s actually a struggle to find jeans that fit me. I rarely wear them. I hate them, they feel like sandpaper against my legs. Worse, it still gets hot this time of year sometimes, especially in the lower elevations is what I heard. It’s a sensational nightmare for me. But Dad won’t let me go shooting if I don’t wear them, so I eventually find a pair that barely fits, and I find a belt to tightly buckle them up. I put a pullover hoodie on top, then I work my way out to the garage, where my boots are, and put them on. My boots are not as painful as my jeans, but I still don’t like them. They limit my ankle movement, and make it feel like I can’t run in them. But Dad has told me it’s dusty out by this “Land’s End” (what kind of name is that? It’s not like the Earth has an edge. At least, not here in Colorado of all places), so I don’t complain.

I walk outside, to where Dad is.

“I just spoke with them, and they said it’s okay,” he tells us. “Agent Cole or whatever-his-name-is said he can join us to look after 35.”

He then takes a second to think.

“So, here’s the plan: 35, you’re gonna stay here with my wife until she gets a text telling you to hop over to Brock.”

35 just gives a firm, silent nod.

“Brock, you’re coming with me, and as soon as we leave, I’m texting the FBI. They’ll meet us at the entrance to the desert.”

35 quietly wheezes with my lungs. Did Dad say something funny? Oh well.

“Any questions?” he asks.

“Nope,” 35 and I say in sync.

“Jinx! Double Jinx! Triple jinx?!”

“Something Nothing!” says 35 while I stay silent.

“Ha! You owe me three sodas!” I shout in victory.

35 giggles while Dad scoffs and shakes his head. “Kids…” I hear him mutter.

We load up all of the equipment, and some water at 35’s insistence. True to what Dad said, they stay behind with Mom, and they wave us goodbye as we pull out. Once we get to the end of the driveway, Dad texts Collins that we’re on our way.

I’ve never been to where we’re going, so I want to look out the window, but then, dad gives me a suggestion.

“Hey would you mind checking the regs? You haven’t read them yet, have you? You always seemed to catch something I miss. You’re basically our field lawyer.”

Ha. Field Lawyer. I’ve accepted that title a couple years back when I kept looking over the regs back in Kansas. I’d always find a way to bring up something he and his friends missed. I don’t mind it.

I reach down into the door, and pull out the regulations brochure. I first go through the “What’s New.” There isn’t much we care about. Then the “License Fees” (Good thing we moved here in February! The nonresident prices are insane!) and “What you need to buy a license.”

“Did you buy the licenses?” I ask while it’s on my mind.

“Oh, yes, I did. Gimmie a sec.”

He reaches into the central console, and pulls something out. He goes through two blue pieces of paper before handing one of them to me. I look at it, and it’s my hunting license. It says “Youth Resident Elk Antlered 2^nd Rifle OTC.” The season runs from October 20^th through the 28^th. Wow. Right before my birthday. That’ll be exciting! It also says “Youth Resident Annual Small Game and Fishing Combo” down below.

“You need to sign it,” instructs dad. “Not the kill tag, the license itself.”

I pull a pen out of the cupholder and sign where it tells me to. After making doubly sure that I’m not marking the “kill tag.”

I go back to reading the regs. Rifles need to have a bullet diameter of at least .24 inches or six millimeters, shoot seventy grain bullets for deer and bear and eighty-five grains for elk and moose. (Doesn’t that rule in my .243?)

Moose. Right, moose. I didn’t know they lived in Colorado! I thought we were too far south for that. But wouldn’t you know? The previous page even has a guide on telling them apart from elk! Who on Earth would make that mistake? Elk are light colored, and moose are almost black. The difference is so obvious! But surely, there won’t be any moose where we’re going anyway, right?

I go back to looking at methods of take. 1000 foot-pounds at a hundred yards, and it’s illegal to hunt small game with a rifle larger than .23 inches during the big game season, unless you have an unfilled big game tag. I wonder why.

I notice a little blurb that says “Hunters Must Wear Daylight Fluorescent Orange.” Well, it’s required during the rifle seasons if you’re hunting big game, anyway. Both a vest and a hat are required, and camo orange doesn’t count.

I skip ahead to the elk page. Apparently, a bull elk needs either four points on an antler, or his brow tine must be five inches or longer. At least in units that are over-the counter. The ones that don’t are either require a license by draw or east of I-25 on the Front Range. What’s up with that?

My question unanswered, I’m bored now, so I look out the window to see-

WOAH! WHAT THE HELL!?!?!

Terror grabs a hold of my chest as I look out the window and see nothing outside. My eyes are as wide as they can go.

“What is this?! Where are we?!” I ask frantically.

“This is the Black Canyon,” answers Dad. “And that’s the Gunnison River at the bottom.”

“You never said we’d be driving next to a Canyon! That’s like a thousand feet deep!”

“Oh, it’s more than that,” says Dad.

As if that makes me feel any better! The guard rail doesn’t look like it could stop us!

I nervously comment “Uh, is that me, or can someone drive off the edge if they wanted to?”

“Oh Hell yeah,” Dad responds. “You think this is scary? I grew up here, you know?”

“I didn’t know that. I just knew you were from Colorado originally before moving to Kansas.” The subject is not distracting me from the edge as my eyes remain glued to it.

“Yep. My dad drove me on this road every weekend. And every other time he did, he was as drunk as a skunk. Scared the shit out of me.”

I gulp. I wish 35 was here to get Dad to-

“Hey, everything alright here?” asks 35.

I shout. Dad screams and swerves as we-

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

Come to a complete stop.

I hyperventilate for what feels like a good minute. I’m just about to try 35’s breathing exercise when…

“What the fuck are you doing here?!” Dad screams. “I told you to stay at the house until I texted her!”

“Yeah, but I got pulled back here because somebody was scared half to death,” answers 35.

“What do you mean?” He turns to me. “You telling me you were that scared?”

“Uh, yeah?” I respond. “I’ve never been here before! What else was I supposed to think?”

Dad sighs and slumps. “Yeah kiddo, sorry I didn’t warn you about that. We’re almost out. Only a few more minutes of this before we’re back out in the open.”

Just then, a black SUV pulls up behind us and stops. Agent Collins gets out and walks up to the driver side door. Dad rolls down the window.

“Everything alright?” Agent Collins checks.

“Yeah, we’re good,” Dad answers. “I just got a surprise passenger next to the ledge.” He points to 35.

“Oh, let’s not do that,” Agent Collins says to them.

“It’s my fault,” I defend. “I got too scared, and it pulled them in here with us.”

“Don’t blame yourself, kid.” 35 assures. “You did what anyone else would do if they looked up to see themselves driving at thirty to forty next to a 1,500-foot drop-off. Especially at your age.”

No one says anything for a second, then we take off for this “Land’s End.” Now I’m really hoping it’s not some big drop-off like the Black Canyon! Enough of that for one day!

Despite the addition of another passenger, the ride continues quietly and silently. That is, until Dad turns on Chris Ledoux. I don’t exactly mind. I haven’t heard much from him since 35 showed up and started giving me more stuff to listen to.

“There’s a mule deer laying by the road ahead… He ain’t sleeping, he’s damn sure dead…” Ledoux sings…

…as we pass an actual dead mule deer on the side of the road! Unbelievable!

As we drive by, we scare up a raven that was feasting on the deer carcass. There’s an awful lot of ravens around here. What is up with that? They’ve really been hanging around these last couple of months.

Well, been seeing a raven a lot these last few months. Rarely do I see more than one at a time.

We keep heading north, east of Delta. We pass through a place called “Crawford,” and then keep heading north, until…

“We’re here,” dad eventually says.

Is this a desert, or is it a wasteland? This place looks so…dead. Most of the ground is exposed, and what little grass there is, is all a dried yellow. The bushes don’t look much better; all of their leaves are on. White splotches cover bits of the ground here and there. Salt? I even see piles of junk and animal bones as we drive by.

“Don’t be fooled, kid,” says 35 in my head. “Life still clings to existence here. You just got to look and listen.”

I look farther into the distance. There’s a mountain nearby, towering over the wasteland, the peak looking as barren and dead as where we are, despite having trees lower down.

Eventually, we come to a stop. Dad gets out and starts setting up. Agent Collins pulls up right behind us. I stay in the truck and wait. It’s not too long before I hear Dad knock on the door.

“You ready?” he asks.

“Yeah, I’m ready,” I answer as I get out.

“Let’s start you on your .243.”

I grab a pair of hearing protection before getting my rifle out of its case. I check to see if it’s loaded, then walk over to where Dad set up the range. There’s a shooting table, and a rest made for absorbing recoil. I put the rifle on the rest with the bolt still open. Finally, I sit on the bench.

“Let’s just start out with a few easy shots,” dad instructs. Just aim for the center of the bullseye, take your time, squeeze the trigger.”

I load up the mag, close the bolt, and look through the scope. I adjust the bench and rest repeatedly until the crosshairs line up in the center.

“Put your left hand up against the stock and use it to keep the gun snug up against you. That way, the recoil won’t hurt,” 35 quietly suggests in my head.

“And what do you know about shooting?” I think back.

“More than you would guess. Feel free to ignore me. But if you can’t do that, then I suggest at least pointing your right thumb forward, parallel to the gun.”

I wordlessly, thoughtless aim through the scope for a second. Doubt starts picking at me in a way I can’t ignore. Eventually, I crack and do what they say.

“Oh, nice,” comments dad. “Been reading up on it?”

“Yep,” I answer without thinking.

Ready to fire, I squeeze the trigger. And Squeeze. And Squeeze. The gun starts shaking. I keep squeezing, but nothing happens. I squeeze as hard as I can. Nothing! WHAT IS GOING ON?!?!

“Take the safety off,” everyone takes turns saying in some form or another.

Right, safety. Click. Now, squeeze, squeeze, and-

BOOM.

I blink.

I can see through the scope, the bullet hole is right next to the center dot, right on the right edge.

I cycle the bolt to jack in another round.

“Take your time,” reminds 35. “Inhale, exhale. Squeeze on exhale, the shot should surprise you.”

Right, I’ve heard that all before. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exha-

BOOM.

I blink again. The new bullet hole is on the right edge of the last one.

I jack in another round.

“Become one with the gun,” whispers 35. “Once you are truly proficient, the rifle will become an extension of yourself.”

Right. The rifle is a part of me. It obeys me like my own hands. The rifle is I.

BOOM.

I don’t blink. The third bullet hole is right between the first two, on top.

I open the bolt, the mag empty.

That felt, surprisingly good!

“I’d like to try it without the rest!” I announce.

“Let’s fix that crosshair first,” Dad says. He walks up to the scope, removes the side cap, pulls out a quarter, moves it two clicks. “Now try it on the rest.”

I put another round in. BOOM. I don’t blink! Dead Center!

I’m excited now! I load up another mag before pulling the rifle off the rest, supporting it by my elbows.

“Hey, let’s calm down,” suggests 35. “Keep taking your time.”

I go through all three shots without blinking, but all the bullet holes surround the center instead of being in it.

“Don’t be hard on yourself,” says 35. “You still got a ways to go. Besides, all of your shots were in the nine ring anyway.”

I think for a second. “I’d like to try the .338 now.”

“Winchester Mag?” Agent Collins barges in, surprised at what he’s hearing.

“Lapua Magnum,” Dad clarifies.

“That sounds like a lot of gun for a kid,” Collins comments. Even through his sunglasses, I can see his eyes are wide.

“Well, we don’t have any other options,” Dad retorts. “Without buying him another gun.”

“What are you hunting?”

“Elk.”

“And what’s that?” he gestures towards my rifle.

“A .243.”

“You don’t have any other options?”

“I have a 30-30 I used back in Kansas.”

Collins goes silent. “Hold on a second.” He goes to the back of his SUV, and gets out…a rifle?

“What’s this?” Dad asks.

“7.62x51 NATO,” Collins answers. “It’s most similar to a .308”

“Where did you get that?”

“It’s standard issue for HRT.”

“HRT?!?!” 35 asks, confused, and maybe a bit horrified.

“Hostage Rescue Team,” he clarifies.

“Ohhh…” responds 35.

Jeez, were they expecting something else?

“Were you expecting something else?” Collins asks as I think it.

“Yep, I used to have a bunch of friends who used to use the ‘other’ HRT,” they respond.

We stare at 35 for a second before Collins continues.

“Anyways, they gave it to me for my assignment to you, just in case things went sideways. It’s most similar to rifles you should be using against elk. You could do better than a .243, and you do not need a military sniper rifle to do the job either.”

“Doesn’t that .338 go through light grade armor?” asks 35.

“With the right ammunition yes. It’s not meant to kill something with four legs,” Collins jokingly answers. “If anyone asks, I was the one shooting this.”

What? No way!

“You’re letting me try it?” I ask excitedly.

“Not officially.” He smiles as he winks.

I take him up on it. I run through a mag on the rest without blinking. Then, I run through a mag without the rest. I blink on the second shot, but I’m good if we ignore that.

“Thank you!” I tell Agent Collins. I turn to Dad. “I still want to try the .338.”

With an “okay,” he gets back to the truck, grabs his rifle, and places it in the rest. Collins collects his rifle back as Dad does this.

I load up a mag, and shoot it up without flinching.

Now, for without.

“You might want to stand up, so you can use your whole body to resist the recoil,” suggests 35.

I can’t argue with that. I stand up next to the table, pointing the loaded rifle at the target. This gun is heavy! I can barely hold it still as I look through the scope.

“Lean forward,” commands 35. “If you lean back while pulling that trigger, you’ll fall on your ass.”

Whelp. I try to lean forward, but the weight of the gun makes it almost impossible! That’s it! I’m resorting to just pulling the trigger when the crosshairs happen to-

BOOM!!!

The rifle nearly flies up. I lean back so far, I have to take two steps back to stop myself from falling over. I almost do anyway. I drop the muzzle to the ground as soon as it’s over.

Dad walks up to me and says “I’m getting you a new rifle.” Whelp.

Suddenly, I see something small move in the distance. About a hundred yards out.

“What’s that?” I call out, pointing at it.

“What’s what?” asks dad. He turns around to see what I’m looking at.

It moves again.

“Oh, that’s a prairie dog!” he exclaims. “Wanna shoot him? I got you a small game license in addition to the elk.”

Of course I do!

“Yeah!” I exclaim. “I’ll even use this! Just let me use the table to stabilize myself.”

“Are you sure?” Dad asks skeptically.

I notice 35 looks…sad? What? The big demon fighter is suddenly sad that a little varmint is gonna die?

They look away.

“Yeah. You said it yourself. ‘When I’m hunting, I don’t feel any recoil.’ Same went for me with those deer I killed in Kansas.”

“Alright then,” Dad concedes

35 chimes in, “Kiddo, there’s better ways to resolve this than-”

“You, shut up,” Dad commands.

Agent Collins says nothing, but looks at me like I’m crazy.

I’ve gotta do this. I’ve got to! I can handle the .338!

I sit on the bench, rest my elbows on the table, and look through the scope.

I find the prairie dog. He’s standing tall. I aim right for the center of mass. I take in all the advice I’ve heard today. I exhale, squeeze the trigger, and…

BOOMMM!!!!!!

The scope hits my eye, and I’m almost knocked all the way backwards down to the ground.

Thankfully, I’ve anchored my feet to the legs of the table, so my head never falls below my hips, but I’m pointed at the sky now. My gun comes back down, pointed in a slightly different direction. I hear dad behind me, laughing like there’s no tomorrow.

“You blew him… to smithereens!” he says in between laughs.

I re-acquire the prairie dog in the scope. Or, what’s left of him! All I see is his head, and something dangling out of it (his esophagus, maybe?), and I feel bad for a secon- no I don’t; I’m not supposed to. I don’t feel bad. I don’t feel bad. I don’t feel bad. I don’t feel bad. Anti-hunters are wrong, you don’t feel bad for varmints. Especially when they die instantly. Right, Dad?

I start laughing as hard as he is. The thought of a rodent explosion is cracking me up! Especially with how the remains are placed!

But all of a sudden, 35 is over there. They kneel down and reach for the head, as if they’re mourning the dog at a funeral.

“Please tell me you felt bad for them,” they beg inside my head. Once they’ve gotten back over to me.

“No.”

I don’t. I’m not supposed to.

“Really?” they ask, disbelievingly. “Not even a little?”

“Okay, maybe it was a little much using the .338.” I admit. “And we can’t use any meat, so…”

“Kid, if you feel bad for any animals you kill, that’s okay. Feeling bad about it makes you human. It doesn’t mean you can’t hunt. But it’s not good for you to pretend you don’t feel anything. Besides, he did just give up his life for your amusement.”

I don’t say anything back for a moment. I think back on how my “soul” looked like a robot, with nothing in the chest.

“I’m a cold, heartless, calculating machine,” I respond.

“Then why did you laugh? Amusement isn’t exactly ‘cold,’ ‘heartless’ even if it is sadistic, or ‘calculated.’”

I don’t answer. Instead, I ignore them as we pack up.

As we’re doing that, a raven perches on the hood of Dad’s truck. I shoo it away, except…

“Hey Dad, a raven shit on your truck!” I announce.

“Watch your language, young man!” he scolds.

He walks up to the front of the truck to see what I’m talking about.

“God fucking dammit!” he yells. “He shit on my truck!”

I giggle as the raven flies over to the dead prairie dog. Guess it wasn’t a complete waste after all.

But is that the same one that was eating the buck earlier? I know they all look the same, but, still…

In any case, I didn’t blink with the 338! I might actually be good now! I check my face in the sideview mirror for signs of a scope ring, but there isn’t any. Heck, if that’s all the scope’s got, then what was I ever worried about? I’m good to go!

We depart, headed straight home. 35 and I insist on taking the longer way through Delta and Montrose so that we can avoid the Black Canyon. Dad reluctantly agrees.

“So, why do they call it ‘Land’s End?’” I ask.

“It’s just the name of that mountain,” Dad answers.

Oh. That makes sense, I guess.

“And the one behind it is Mount Lamborn.” The phone rings. “Hold on, I got a call. Hey Phil…”

35 is sitting in the back seat, head and hands positioned like they’re either tired, or crying, or whatever. They look up.

I cannot see their eyes. A shiver of terror runs down my spine.