The perplexing roller coaster of events has left you dreading what the future may hold. As you toil with your feelings for Negan--as you strive to protect Nicole--enemies prowl on the fence of The Sanctuary. Menacing storm clouds of war are brewing...
CLANK! "Damn straight! That's six in a row! Are you sure you have enough cans?"
It was a picturesque summer day in Elkins, West Virginia. The noon sun cast its rays on the willows, making their green wisps glow vibrantly. A brook babbled in the distance and gossiped with the twittering birds. The heat was almost oppressive, but the breeze relieved the slight humidity. You were knocking out empty cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon at the shooting range with your father. The gun shots alerted the birds, causing them to burst from the surrounding trees in panicked formations. This target practice had become a tradition. You'd been accompanying your father to the rifle range since you were ten-years-old. Collecting cans from the neighborhood recycling bins was your assignment prior to every practice. And if there were no recyclables to be found, your dad would drink a few beers the night before your outing. This "class" of his was an exciting alternative to household chores. And he loved mentoring you. By the time you were about to enter high school, you knew how to hold, aim, reload, and clean shotguns. Even the forceful kickback was no longer an issue. Days like these were perfect for capping cans--the sky was crystal clear and the weather was nothing short of beautiful.
"Okay, watch this," your Dad murmured. He walked over the cinder blocks that he utilized as a platform. Carefully stacking two cans on top of each other, he backed away. He licked his finger and gauged the direction of the wind. Returning to his firing position, he laid down and sighted his target. His one eye shut tightly and he adjusted his aim. Taking a deep breath, he cocked the rifle. You observed him studiously. BANG! A cloud of smoke puffed from the gun and floated on the breeze. He knocked the bottom can from the stack and the top can landed in its place--like swiftly pulling a table cloth from beneath a setting of fine china. Expertly, he clicked to the next chamber and sent the remaining PBR flying with three seconds of his first shot. POW! Lifting his head, he gazed at the vacant platform and smirked.
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You laughed in utter amazement. "God! You're such a show-off," you bayed.
A smug smile formed above his stubbly chin. "Not bad, eh? I still got it," he boasted. He sat up, put the rifle to the side, and lit a cigarette to congratulate himself--he swore by his Camel Blues.
You leaned back on your elbows and watched the birds darting through the sky. Sighing, you uttered, "I'm not really looking forward to school."
"Why the hell not?" your Dad asked, and then took a drag off his cig.
Reluctant to respond, you brushed off your anxiety. "Ah well, you know...I just don't want this summer to end."
