Not what he wanted.
But still, if they made it to Minneapolis, Peter could stay with Devin, like he was a little brother, at least until he turned eighteen. He could go to business school, get his credentials, and become suitably employed. Move out of Devin’s house and into one of his own. Find a girlfriend. Make a new family. Hope the nightmares went away.
“This is far enough,” Joe said. He tied a long-sleeved shirt around the trunk of a rotten tree, then he pulled the gun from his back and walked a few meters away. “All I know about this gun is how to load it and fire it.”
“Did your father teach you?”
It took so long that Peter had stopped expecting an answer. Joe stared at the tree instead. Finally, he said, “Boggs.”
Peter grabbed for the long, rounded tube part of the rifle.
Joe jerked back to the present and pushed Peter’s hand away. “Sit.”
Peter rolled his eyes and sat on the ground. The damp from the rain soaked his bottom almost immediately. Ew.
“It’s important to take this seriously. Guns are not toys. Their purpose is to kill.”
“I know.” Why was Joe harshing on him like a grown-up? “It’s to shoot bad guys like Sanders.”
“Marcus is in the ground instead of here with us because he thought stupid things like that,” Joe snapped, “because I didn’t remember to tell him. Be quiet and listen.” He picked up a rock and hurled it toward the target tree. It hit the shirt and bounced off. “Killing a person is serious, Peter. It’s something you can’t ever change once it happens.”
“I know.”
“We have no right to pick and choose who lives and who dies. Sanders was not a good man. He shot me. He would have sold you and Devin. He planned to kill Flix. All of that is true, but Marcus took Sanders’s life without knowing if he really had to. And because Marcus shot Sanders, someone shot Marcus. And Sadie. And then Aria killed all those people.”
“But Marcus saved you.” Why debate what Peter didn’t even believe? Something in Joe’s tone, the way he sounded like an adult, made Peter want to argue.
Joe pressed his thumb to the space between his eyes. “I’m messing this up. I’m not... I’m not a parent, okay? But I need you to understand the responsibility you accept by learning to use a weapon. I didn’t talk to Marcus about this; I need you to hear me.”
Peter shrugged and poked at the ground. He had parents already. Used to have parents.
“Taking a life is a horrible tragedy. It doesn’t matter whether the person deserves it or not. The day I met you, I watched three people die — a sort-of good person, a sort-of bad person, and a guy who was just doing his job. Their blood was the same color, Peter, when it all mixed together on the floor. I didn’t even pull the trigger, not once, but every day I think about all the things I could have done differently so none of them had to die. I won’t ever be free of their deaths.”
This lecture was tweaking Peter off. Momma and Dad had died ugly. That’s what he couldn’t forget. “And I won’t ever be free of the people I could have saved. Don’t talk to me like I don’t understand.”
Joe sat cross-legged on the ground, facing Peter like an equal, and Peter’s esteem for him climbed. His eyes had lost the hardness they’d had the whole time he was talking. “I don’t want to add to your pain. I just want you to understand that learning to use a weapon like this isn’t a gift; it’s a burden.
“This” — Joe shook the rifle — “is a last resort. It’s the thing you do when you’ve used your wits and your hands and whatever less-lethal weapon you have and it’s still not enough. It’s what you use when you have no choice.”
Peter studied Joe. All that sincerity. The steadiness of his bony, too-thin hands. Because he was skipping meals to make sure everyone else had food. He was taking extra guard shifts during the night to make sure everyone else got enough rest. He was protecting them the best he could. Peter could give him this much. “I understand. I’ll take it seriously.”
Joe grimaced and nodded. “Let’s get started.”
Peter learned how to slide in a sleek metal magazine from the bottom of the rifle. His fingers clumsy and fumbling, he dropped three bullets before he managed to load one into the rubber-coated slot on top and click the trigger twice to feed the bullet into the firing chamber. The magazine, with its five pre-loaded bullets, seemed a much smarter option, but Joe explained it was important that Peter learn both ways of loading the rifle because they might not always have magazines.
Peter dipped his fingertip into the single-load opening. “Is it okay to waste bullets here then, teaching me how?”
“Devin bought so many back at the Maze-On that I’m not worried. Now take a stance and aim toward the shirt, but don’t fire.”
Peter felt silly, standing poised to attack a shirt, but he did as told. He held the rifle out in front of him. It wobbled and shook.
Joe skirted behind him and nudged his left foot and shoulder forward. “Put the butt against your shoulder, here.” He pressed the spot with his finger. “You know what your collarbone is?”
Peter was not stupid like Devin. “I always received top marks at school.”
“Good. Keep the end of the gun away from your collarbone. There’s not much recoil on this rifle, but you should get in the habit of holding a weapon properly.”
“Did Boggs teach you all this stuff?”
Joe shrugged. “I saw Marcus and Devin practice.”
“So did I, and I
