He finds it beneath the firewood, stashed amongst hickory and maple, wrapped in linen cloth and frayed pages of a Daily Express; by its side, ammunition.
It is long and unwieldy. Rowan has never held a rifle before. He examines its walnut stock, a Savage Model 110, rubs his palm along the shaft and looks around. As far as he knows, no-one has come to his grandfather’s farm in weeks but the item’s sheer menace beckons caution. Swallows swoop and warble, eyeing his catch, tending their precious nests in the rafters.
Does it work?
He turns it in his hands, holds it up, takes aim.
Is it loaded?
He has no idea how to use it. He googles Savage 110, allocates pieces and elements, slings the leather strap over his shoulder and walks to the far end of the barn. The swallows look on in silence. Rowan wonders what he looks like: stupid, no doubt. Yet he doesn’t feel stupid.
