Sam and Colby: The Penitentiary

2

"I'm just sayin'! I don't know what happened with that Colby kid, but—,"

"Okay! Well, I'm going to go, uh... get the eggs," I said, standing up to cut my dad's sentence off.

"Already did," my mom said.

"Feed the goats?" I asked.

"All done," she said.

"The dogs?"

"Fed and refilled their water bowls."

"Then I'm going to go for a four wheeler ride," I said. I quickly shoved the rest of my donut into my mouth, set my plate in the sink, and made a beeline for my room. I changed into some jeans and my black and silver cowboy boots along with a cropped yellow flannel and some aviator sunglasses, then let my hair down and put on a backwards John Deere hat I'd gotten from my grandpa for my 16th birthday.

I practically ran past the dining room and kitchen to dodge any further interaction with my family and opened the back door, letting all of the dogs run out into the giant open space.

"V, honey?" my dad called from the dining room.

"Hm?" I groaned, not wanting to talk to them right now. Especially not about LA or Colby.

"The 22 long is in the shop. I put the strap on it last night so you can carry it on your back," he yelled.

"Thanks, Dad," I called out before making my way into the backyard and shutting the door behind me. I ran out to the barn, the dogs running with me and playfully barking and wrestling on the way. I heaved open the giant red wooden sliding doors to reveal the four Yamaha four wheelers, parked next to the tractors we used to clear out the giant forest that never seemed to stop growing in the back of the multi-acre goat pens.

I went up to the matte black four wheeler, the one I'd gotten for my 13th birthday. I hopped onto it and turned the key, the familiar humming sound of the engine filling my ears. I put it into reverse and then drove through the big open lot in the backyard that wasn't occupied by any pens and sped down to my dad's workshop.

I hopped off the ATV and ran inside, snaking my way through the aisles of tools and chains and ropes and saws. It was a huge shop, the contents of it pretty similar to a Home Depot. I made my way to the workbench in the back to see my favorite gun, my mom's from when she was younger. I slung the strap around my back and grabbed a box of bullets, shoving them into the small bag attached to the side of the four wheeler. I got back on and revved up the engine before flying down the path to the small lake my dad had dug out a few years ago. I hit 40 miles per hour on the ATV, savoring the wonderful feeling of the wind rushing through my hair and the sun kissing my skin.

I made it to the end of the bumpy path, then started snaking my way through the thin forest and through a field and up the small mound just past the little lake. I parked the four wheeler at the top, not making the mistake of trying to drive it through a ditch. The last time I'd done that I was fifteen, and I'd managed to flip the damn thing and break my arm. I ran down the other side of the hill and through the deep, muddy ditch.

When I got to the top, I could see the small shooting range we'd set up when I was younger. We brought most of our recyclables out here, cans and cartons and empty milk jugs littering the ground among shotgun shells and bullet casings. My boots crunched over the broken glass on the ground from the mason jars I'd been shooting at a couple days ago.

I walked out into the small dirt patch and set up several Coke cans in a row, balancing them on top of some cement blocks we'd brought out. I ran back, about fifteen feet away, and began loading the gun. I turned off the safety, cocked the gun, and was about to pull the trigger when Vance yelled from behind me.

"Miss!" he yelled. His word caught me by surprise, causing me to miss my shot by over a foot.

"Vance!" I whined, pointing the gun at the ground and turning to see him running down over to me, an identical gun in his hands.

"Works like a charm every time. I don't think you've ever made a shot when I tell you you're going to miss," he said, chuckling as he picked up the box of bullets by my feet to load his own rifle.

"Yeah, yeah," I muttered, lifting the gun back up. I took three shots back to back, knocking over three of the six cans I'd set up.

"Damn, someone's been practicing," Vance laughed.

"You're just jealous that your little sister's always been a better shot than you," I teased.

"We'll see about that," he said, aiming his gun. He also took three shots, aiming for the last three cans, but only hit one and grazed another.

"I rest my case," I said, dramatically bowing.

"Oh, hush," he said, setting his gun down and turning on the safety. I did the same. "So we going to talk about what just happened inside? Mom says you've just been wallowing in your room listening to sad music and crying all the time."

"I have not!" I argued. He gave me a look and raised one eyebrow. "Okay, fine. Maybe a little bit."

"You dyed your hair too, huh?" he asked, nodding toward my hair. It had been silver with black roots before, but was now a dusty black that faded to white tips at the end.

"Needed a change," I said with a shrug.

"Yeah? How come?" he asked. I sighed and turned to him.

"You're really not going to let this go, are you?" I asked.

"Nope," he replied.