Sixty-Three
I’M AT THE far end of the property, out near the tree and the tire I’m trying to use as a way of proving to myself that I can still throw a football where I’m aiming it, and with a little something on it, when I hear EJ shouting at me.
Then see her running toward me on those wiry legs of hers.
I lower the Glock that Burt Webb has temporarily given me on loan, having made me swear I won’t leave the farm with it. Lower it to my side and press it against my leg.
The Dr Pepper cans I’ve lined up in front of the tree don’t catch her attention right away once she’s up on me.
The gun does, though.
But then they’re usually hard to miss.
She is almost completely out of breath, putting her hands on her knees for a moment before she looks back up at me.
“I heard—” She starts and then stops. Still out of breath. “I thought—”
Her cheeks are the same color as her prized roses.
But now her eyes are fixed firmly on Burt’s Glock.
I know EJ’s not afraid of guns, that she keeps one in the top drawer of her nightstand, a Smith & Wesson M&P Shield, for the simple reason that she’d been living alone, and for a long time, until I came back.
She knows how to use that handgun, she’s assured me, but I always assure her right back that I hope she’ll never have the need.
“What in the world are you doing with that?” she asks, pointing at the gun.
“Practicing,” I say.