The green meadow was littered with bits of white clay and spent brass casings by the time the kid had finished. His mind was full of boulders and spinning white discs. His memory was crowded with the crunching sounds of the sledgehammer and the report of the small caliber pistol. The pistol had been painted bright orange, for some reason, but the kid had learned not to question the old man by this point.

They approached a small pond lined with tall grass, bushes and trees. The old man’s dog, a goofy looking beagle, bounded off into the vegetation with a ragged series of barks.

“One at a time, dog,” the old man commanded.

A single duck flew out of its comfortable concealment and into the blue sky.

“Fire!” the old man yelled at the kid who fumbled with his orange pistol.

POP. POP. POP. The last bullet sailed harmlessly through the air past the escaping duck.

“A fly away,” the old man said with disgust.

The frustrated kid could swear the dog was laughing at him as it popped out of the tall reeds.