CHAPTER 1: THE BOY COLLECTING BRASS
The shooting range was louder than usual that morning.
Rifles cracked across the firing lanes.
Empty brass casings bounced across concrete.
Competitors compared scores beneath the grandstand while spectators filled the bleachers.
Nobody paid much attention to Noah.
Ten years old.
Gray hoodie.
Worn jeans.
A metal bucket in his hands.
His job was simple.
Walk the range after every round and collect spent shell casings.
Most people barely noticed him.
Some preferred it that way.
Noah moved quietly between the lanes, dropping brass into the bucket one handful at a time.
Clink.
Clink.
Clink.
The sound blended into the rhythm of the range.
Then someone stepped into his path.
A competitive shooter wearing a black-and-white jacket.
One of the favorites to win the day's event.
He glanced down at Noah with visible annoyance.
"Hey kid, stay away from the firearms."
Before Noah could answer, the man shoved him aside.
The bucket swung violently.
Several spectators laughed.
Noah stumbled but managed to keep his balance.
He simply nodded and continued working.
That seemed to irritate the shooter even more.
A few minutes later, Noah passed by again.
This time, the man deliberately kicked the bucket.
The brass exploded across the concrete.
Hundreds of shell casings rolled in every direction.
Laughter spread through the nearby lanes.
"Collecting brass is probably the only thing you're good at."
The shooter smirked.
Several people watched.
Nobody intervened.
Noah slowly knelt to the ground.
One casing at a time.
One handful at a time.
He picked them up.
Patient.
Silent.
Completely calm.
The shooter eventually lost interest and walked away.
But Noah's attention had shifted elsewhere.
Toward a rifle resting on a nearby equipment table.
May you like
A precision rifle prepared for the long-distance competition.
And for the first time all morning, Noah started walking toward the firing line.
