The shooter turns toward me, but I’m too close. I push the barrel of his rifle away just as it discharges. He pulls the trigger again, but there is only a click. I grab the hot barrel and twist, wrenching the gun from his hands. I turn and run.
Halfway down the natural steps of the sloping greenway of Rodgers Military Academy, I’m still running, still holding the rifle. Not wanting to be mistaken for the shooter, I slow down and point the gun toward the sky with the strap around my right shoulder.
Major Riebold is walking up the steps toward me. We exchange salutes.
“Good morning, Wilhite,” he says. “Nice day for a stroll.”
Hadn’t he heard the shots? I want to warn him, but all I can say is, “Yes, sir.”
I stop and look back toward the major as he continues up the hill. He doesn’t give me a second look.
I feel a slight pain in my left side, and I see I’m bleeding. Had the bullet hit me? Shit!
I keep moving to stay lucid. Everyone I pass along the way seems normal, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened this morning, as if there’d been no gunshots, as if I were not pale and sweating and bleeding.
“Hey, Willhite,” Jameson says as we pass each other in the quad. “Wanna play some football later on? I could use a good receiver.”
“Sure,” I say, as I collapse into the grass.