The Life Vista

The rifle spoke. The earth pushed back into her shoulder. A heartbeat later the spotter called, “Impact, center.”

Kearns didn’t answer; he was already looking through glass. The hole in the target sat where a coin could cover it.

“At twelve hundred,” he said finally. “And you’re telling me you’ve done nearly triple.”

“Not today,” she said. “On a mountain. With elevation. With time. With a still target. With conditions that lined up like they’d been ordered to.” She eased the rifle safe and sat up. “Extreme shots aren’t stunts. They’re logistics.”

The general lowered his binoculars. Something in his expression had shifted from disbelief to study.

Bureaucracy moves slow until the right signature learns why it shouldn’t. A week later, Kearns sat in a windowless room with a burn bag, a carafe of coffee, and a stack of folders whose covers carried more stamps than titles.

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