Young Marines mocked my old rifle at the line. Then why did my scratched scope bring a general across the gravel to my firing mat before my first shot?
“Mr. Newton,” he said, and the salute held the whole range in place. His hand did not shake. Mine almost did. Not from fear. Not exactly. Fear has a smell, and I know it. This was something stranger, something that put pressure behind my ribs and made the gravel, the rifles, the young faces, and…
