(From an earlier post)
Obert showed up over winter break with a new .22 pistol and suggested we go shooting. I had my .22 Ruger and my dad’s 38/.357 he’d bought at the same time. We grabbed ammo, drove as far as the dirt lot allowed, then hiked over a few hills to the bayshore.
We found a small rain pond full of cans and bottles—good targets—and spent an hour shooting everything to pieces. Down to the last rounds and the last bottle, I reloaded fast and decided to practice a quick draw.
My holster wasn’t tied to my leg. When I drew, it twisted, the barrel caught, my thumb slipped, and the gun fired. The bullet went through three layers of leather, into my thigh, hit bone, shattered, and stopped.
I found myself flat in the mud, feet in the pond.
“I’m shot!”
Obert looked over. “No you’re not. I didn’t hear anything.”
We found the holes in the leather. Then the hole in my leg. No exit.
“Get me out of here.”
He first had to go to the bathroom. Then he went to find the access road. I lay in the mud while a German shepherd dripped water on me and its owner said, “Yeah, I used to shoot down here too,” and kept walking.
Almost an hour later, Obert came roaring down the access road—right past me. He reversed, tried to load me into the car, realized the passenger door was locked, unlocked it, turned back, and watched Max the dog jump into the seat again. The owner removed him at his usual glacial pace.
The Drive Out
We lurched onto the access road. The windshield was splattered with clumps of mud but still usable. Then we hit a puddle. More mud. Still fine.
Then Obert turned on the wipers.
One swipe turned the entire windshield into a solid wall of brown. Total blackout.
We rolled the windows down and stuck our heads out like two injured hounds trying to navigate by smell.
At the next intersection, Obert tapped the horn for safety.
The horn button launched off the wheel, smacked him in the face, and vanished all the way into the way-back of the station wagon—a perfect trajectory into the automotive void—leaving the horn jammed in one continuous scream.
Now we were blind, muddy, fishtailing, and blasting a county-wide alarm.
That was my ride to the hospital.
Aftermath
At the ER, Obert disconnected the battery to silence the horn. The doctor came in with X-rays.
“You’ve been shot. Bullet shattered on the bone. A few pieces are in the muscle.”
“What now?”
“Nothing. Maybe someday a piece will work its way out.”
That was the entire treatment plan.
I healed slowly, entered college with a cane, and still check my leg for shrapnel.
And I don’t quick-draw anymore.
A Work Progressing 
The Bullet
(From an earlier post)
Obert showed up over winter break with a new .22 pistol and suggested we go shooting. I had my .22 Ruger and my dad’s 38/.357 he’d bought at the same time. We grabbed ammo, drove as far as the dirt lot allowed, then hiked over a few hills to the bayshore.
We found a small rain pond full of cans and bottles—good targets—and spent an hour shooting everything to pieces. Down to the last rounds and the last bottle, I reloaded fast and decided to practice a quick draw.
My holster wasn’t tied to my leg. When I drew, it twisted, the barrel caught, my thumb slipped, and the gun fired. The bullet went through three layers of leather, into my thigh, hit bone, shattered, and stopped.
I found myself flat in the mud, feet in the pond.
“I’m shot!”
Obert looked over. “No you’re not. I didn’t hear anything.”
We found the holes in the leather. Then the hole in my leg. No exit.
“Get me out of here.”
He first had to go to the bathroom. Then he went to find the access road. I lay in the mud while a German shepherd dripped water on me and its owner said, “Yeah, I used to shoot down here too,” and kept walking.
Almost an hour later, Obert came roaring down the access road—right past me. He reversed, tried to load me into the car, realized the passenger door was locked, unlocked it, turned back, and watched Max the dog jump into the seat again. The owner removed him at his usual glacial pace.
The Drive Out
We lurched onto the access road. The windshield was splattered with clumps of mud but still usable. Then we hit a puddle. More mud. Still fine.
Then Obert turned on the wipers.
One swipe turned the entire windshield into a solid wall of brown. Total blackout.
We rolled the windows down and stuck our heads out like two injured hounds trying to navigate by smell.
At the next intersection, Obert tapped the horn for safety.
The horn button launched off the wheel, smacked him in the face, and vanished all the way into the way-back of the station wagon—a perfect trajectory into the automotive void—leaving the horn jammed in one continuous scream.
Now we were blind, muddy, fishtailing, and blasting a county-wide alarm.
That was my ride to the hospital.
Aftermath
At the ER, Obert disconnected the battery to silence the horn. The doctor came in with X-rays.
“You’ve been shot. Bullet shattered on the bone. A few pieces are in the muscle.”
“What now?”
“Nothing. Maybe someday a piece will work its way out.”
That was the entire treatment plan.
I healed slowly, entered college with a cane, and still check my leg for shrapnel.
And I don’t quick-draw anymore.
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