At the shooting range
Standing at station nine, under the roof of the 50-yard pistol range, I held the gun steady, squinting with one eye open at the sight at the end of the barrel, making minor adjustments to my grip until the middle white dot was in between the two outer white dots. With the center of my right index fingertip, I pulled the trigger slowly, remembering Dad’s instructions, You almost want to be surprised when it goes off. The moment of explosion was sudden and disorienting. Even after shooting a hundred rounds, I still hadn’t gotten used to it. After each shot, I lowered the gun to look at the target. The holes in the paper were below the orange circle in the center. I raised the gun again and aimed a little higher. At stations eight and eleven, two other guns were going off. Each shot was so loud that I could feel the pressure of the bang moving through the air.