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pop-up range. But for now we have two ranges and some cleared training grounds. Once we get an organized training schedule set up, we’ll reevaluate our needs. Maybe in addition to the tactical courses, we’ll need to add some pistol bays.”
    So they want Dad to help them build tactical courses, and maybe more. But is this help or work? Unless that’s how they get people like us in — let us work off our fees. Mom will never go for that. Mark and Dad need to be doing actual, money-paying work or we’ll be broke and living with Uncle Skip forever.
    The path widens and blends into the area behind the first range. “This is our pistol range,” Riggs says. “Target boards at twenty-five yards on the right”— he motions to the firing points to the right of us —“and at fifty yards on the left, so you can also sight in rifles.”
    Maybe twenty firing points with wooden tables behind them. Stools for those who want to sit and space between the tables for kneeling or going prone. The range is cold while two men are packing up their gear and another is getting ready to shoot. The others are talking or checking their targets while they wait to continue.
    “You know,” Dad says, looking at the guys waiting to continue with their shooting, “if you added a concrete wall in the middle, one group could stay hot while the other side is cold.”
    Riggs smiles like Dad is a genius. “It’s been requested, along with overhead cover, but we haven’t gotten to either yet.”
    It’s Dad’s turn to smile, and now I’m sure that at least
he
thinks he’s getting paid for whatever “help” he offers them with all these plans.
    “What do you think?” Riggs asks, and it takes me a beat to realize he’s talking to me.
    “Nice,” I say, but it’s better than nice. I could spend all day here.
    “You’ll have to be tested before you can shoot outside of group training sessions or scheduled one-on-one times with an instructor’s supervision,” he says to me, leaning around Dad. “We’re going to put together a posted schedule showing when teens are allowed individual practice. Always supervised, mind you. Sixteen?” he asks, but before I can answer, he says, “We have some other active young shooters. Their parents drop off their firearms and ammunition, or we’ll supply what you need to shoot here.”
    For a fee, I’m sure. Fees. Ammunition. Money. But to be able to shoot whenever, with actual targets, in this range, would rock. And that’s at least three times he’s said
training
. Could they be doing more than shooting?
    We move on back into shade and trees. Riggs is still talking.
    When the path widens again, we come around a bend and there they are. About fifteen kids are standing around, with two adults talking near the firing points. They’ve already set up metal freestanding targets and wooden target frames in front of three or four of the shooting tables on one side of the range. Off to the left are additional targets, barrels, and obstacles, ready to be used. The obligatory dirt berm forms a wide U around the whole area and seems high enough that no rounds should leave the range.
    On closer look, some of the kids could be adults, too. At least nineteen, like Mark, or maybe even twenty.
    We follow Riggs down front to where the two men in charge are talking.
    “Randy, Carl, hope we’re not interrupting,” Riggs says, even though it’s obvious they haven’t started yet.
    Some laughter filters through like a breeze through the trees.
    “This is Bex Mullin, Mark’s sister,” Riggs says, turning slightly and looking for Mark in the group. Mark scowls at me. “And their father, David. Bex is going to join you all for today. And may attend some of the open sessions. As our guest,” he adds, maybe for Dad’s benefit, maybe for Randy’s and Carl’s, some sort of communication about how much I belong. Like I’m not entirely trustworthy, or maybe making sure they know I’m just a guest.
    “Welcome,