Deep into an Arizona summer, it’s 113 degrees outside. The sweat beads on my neck as I fumble to press the copper-colored cartridges into the magazine. Once loaded, I slam the magazine into place with the palm of my hand. I chamber the round and assume the proper position: feet shoulder-width apart, arms in an A-formation, dominant hand gripping the 9 mm pistol. One eye closed, I narrow in on my target. Steady, steady, pop. There’s a burst of light and a casing clanks against the cement floor. Bull’s-eye, baby.
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