Page 59 of The Firefighter's Fate

This fair is everything you’d imagine of a small town American one. There are all the treats you’d expect – cotton candy, lemonade stands, corn dogs. We pass a petting zoo with kids running around with goats and miniature horses. There are all the carnival games that you would anticipate in a place like this.

“Let’s do a game,” I suggest to my firefighter escort as we stroll past a bunch of kids trying to shoot targets with air rifles.

Connor chortles at my suggestion. He seems so unserious today. It’s so unlike him. I think our little interaction in my motel room over my leaking pipes has broken the ice wall between us a little bit. Maybe he’s not quite as stern as I might’ve once thought...

“Those games are all rigged,” he says. “We’ll win nothing, Ember.”

“I’m sure you can,” I say, poking him again in the ribs playfully. “Nothing stops a Penmayne, right?”

“If you say so, Ember.”

“One game?”

“Are you going to keep pestering me?”

I nod at the air rifle game.

“I’m positive you’re not bad at shooting, yeah?” I ask the firefighter.

Connor rolls his eyes.

“I’m not doing it, Ember.”

“Come on, are you chicken?”

Connor shakes his head.

“You can’t call me chicken...”

“Then play the game,” I retort with an excitable shriek. “Otherwise I have no choice but to keep on calling you chicken all day. What’s it gonna be?”

Connor grunts his usual grunt.

“Okay,” he mutters. “Fine. You win, Ember. Gimme the gun.”

“That’s the spirit.”

We head up to the stall and Connor hands over the cash. The worker passes him a black rifle and immediately Connor is shooting. He holds the gun up so naturally against his big frame. He’s clearly fired guns before. His huge biceps steady the weapon as he positions it against his shoulder and...

Bam!

Bam!

Bam!

In quick succession, Connor hits every target going. They all rapidly collapse under his superb marksmanship. He’s a perfect shot.

I just stare at him and his antics, completely dumbfounded.

“It’s not too rigged,” he tells me nonchalantly as he hangs up the rifle.

“I can’t believe you just did that,” I reply, blinking.

Connor shrugs.

“Yeah, I’ve had some practice,” he says. “Father always wanted us to know our way around weapons.”

“Connor... you were amazing... you could compete professionally...”

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