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“Don’t do it, man.” I had a feeling I shouldn't have come today.

“Don’t worry. I won’t miss,” he said, in an off-hand sort of way.

“I’m not worried about that. If Marissa finds out, she’s going to be pissed.”

He snorted a laugh. “And the only way she’ll find out is if you tell her.”

“I’m not going to tell her,” I said.

“Exactly. You’d better keep your fucking mouth shut.”

“But that still means you shouldn’t do it.”

“Why not?” he asked. “If no one knows, it doesn’t matter, does it?”

“It’s not about that,” I said. “Just because you won’t get in trouble, doesn’t mean you should do it. There may not be any immediate consequences, but if you have to lie about it, it means you shouldn’t do it.”

“What do you mean? I lie about things I do all the time.”

“If you are lying about your life, you are not satisfied with it. Honesty is the ultimate happiness.”

He gave me one of those crooked smiles. “When the fuck did you become such a philosopher?” I didn’t answer. Instead I watched him prepare his bow. I watched as he tested the string, pulling it back several times before letting it gently settle back into place. I watched as he examined each arrow, from tip to tail, running his fingers along the shaft in a calm and focused manner. I watched as he paced back and forth between his target, making sure everything was in the order he needed it to be. It was ritualistic. In his preparation, there was a profound sense of love and admiration for this sport, and in it I could feel that sense of connection he held and envied him for it.

My brother got into archery nearly fifteen years ago, when he was eight years old. Boy Scouts were doing a demonstration one summer out in the fields by the school, and as soon as Henry saw it, he knew archery was for him. The following week, Mom enrolled Henry in a beginning archery course at a summer camp, and that was were he spent most of his time that summer. Everyone was glad to have him out of the house for awhile.

Dad refused to buy him his own bow. As an excuse, Dad said that the bows were too expensive and that he refused to have something so dangerous around the house, but we knew he was embarrassed to have a son who was so interested in something so useless. A hard working contractor by day, he thought Henry should concentrate on practical skills that would come in handy later in life, such as fixing TVs or chopping wood. At age 10, Henry got his first paper route. Dad was incredibly proud of the boy and began treating him like the man he would become, but then Henry blew all the money he had saved on a top of the line bow. Dad was crushed.

Henry didn’t care, though. In his hands he held all he thought he would ever need. He revered his bow. In the back yard, he built targets out of rice bags and hay and spent the afternoons honing his skills. When his grades began slipping, Dad decided he would sit him down everyday after school to do his homework, hoping that he could eat away daylight hours to stop Henry from practicing. Henry studied diligently every afternoon, but rather than quitting archery, he woke up early every morning and went out before school started. He did this for several years.

At age sixteen, Henry entered his first junior archery contest and won third place. Mom and I were ecstatic, but Henry sulked on the car ride home, telling us that he could’ve done better. When Dad heard this, he gained a new sense of frustration, pity, and respect for his son, and afterwards he encouraged Henry to work as hard as he could, as long as he was able to keep his grades up and his life in order. Henry did work harder. In the past seven years he has won nineteen trophies and counting.

Legend says that William Tell once shot an apple off his son’s head to escape his own execution. This tale has inspired many people throughout the ages and is emblazoned in our current era by the William Tell Overture, the Lone Ranger theme. The idea that a man could be so confident in his skills, that he would risk the life of his son to save his own, had a deep impact on Henry. It has been a source of motivation for him. Would he ever be that confident in his own abilities? Whether he would or not, he wanted to be, and some time ago began practicing with balloons set up fifty yards away. Eventually he began using cantaloupes and finally moved to the apple. At first, he set up his targets on rice bags, but began using bricks when he felt that he needed more pressure to hit the target. He broke a few arrows, but he mastered his skill.

Toby is a German Shepard. Toby is a very large German Shepard. I don’t know how long Henry has been using him, but when I stopped by last week, I found the two amid a mess of sliced apples. I was horrified, but there was nothing I could do. Henry did his best to explain it to me. “Toby’s very obedient,” he said. “He’s the most obedient dog I’ve ever known. He’ll sit perfectly still and take what comes. He’s the perfect practice.” It didn’t sound like practice. Toby wasn’t even Henry’s dog.

“I still don’t think you should do it,” I said.

“You’ve established that,” said Henry, finishing up his preparations. “I’m doing this, I don’t care what the fuck you think.”

He called Toby over to the target. “How long have you been doing this?” I asked.

“Long enough to know I can.”

“How long have you been using Toby, I mean?”

“I don’t know. A month or two, perhaps.”

“And have you ever missed?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Once. I nicked a cantaloupe. Toby was fine, though.”

“This is a hell of a lot smaller than a cantaloupe.”

Henry laughed. “You’ve got a good eye.”

I watched as he directed Toby to sit still. “And Marissa doesn’t know?”

“Of course not. No one would volunteer their dog for this job.”

“Doesn’t that mean you shouldn’t do it?”

“Stop trying to be so fucking responsible,” Henry said. I watched as he placed his new target on Toby’s head. It was a plum. Henry walked back to his shooting line.

“What happens if you miss?” I asked.

“I won’t.”

“But what if you do?”

“I just fucking told you.” Henry was taking aim. I stopped.

The world around us stopped, too. The sun halted on its arc down over the western plain, lighting the land in those peculiar shades of sunset and shadow. The wind died in the grass. The bugs quieted their singing and the rabbits stopped their playing. The earth didn’t breathe.

Neither did Henry.

A second passed. Toby sat expressionless. Life is lived best by those who don’t think of their impending doom. I watched as Henry took a slightly stronger grip on the bow. I watched as he tilted the arrow slightly higher. I watched as he found the harmony he was seeking.

He took the shot. The arrow glided steadily through the air, cutting a path towards its target.

It hit the poor mutt right between the eyes.

Marissa was going to be pissed.