THE ROAD TAKEN
By Leslie Ann Budewitz

Wheatfields always made him ache. On hot days, grain ripened as you watched, and clouds threw shadows on the unpaved strip leading to the farm.

The .38 lay tucked partially under his left thigh. He’d trained himself to shoot left-handed after peering between the seats and seeing his father winged by a mark who’d noticed the quick movement of the gun arm. Getting the angle right did take practice. And patience. Everything worth doing did.

They’d all known how the family lived, what put food on the table–not their barren fields, but the late-night missions. When he’d trotted after his father, they’d smiled. He’ll turn out just like his daddy. But their voices held a warning.

A dust cloud signaled company on the cross road. He willed his fingers steady. The other driver slowed long enough to make sure the unfamiliar rig on the side road wouldn’t pull out suddenly. That split second was all he needed to verify the face, the sunburnt arm, the man who’d made him a killer, too. He raised the .38 and fired.

Whoever said you can’t go home again had it half right. Why would you want to?