The day was clear, a bit warmer than usual at camp, which meant everyone was a little more relaxed except for Dutch, who always had a plan in mind. He was the one who taught you how to use a gun, though your parents had no idea. You wanted to impress them, to show them you were no longer just "the little one" in the family, so you set up a few bottles on a fallen log near the clearing. You’d practiced before you knew you could do it.

You held the revolver with steady hands, which wasn’t easy considering its weight. You aimed at the first bottle, taking a deep breath as Dutch had taught you, and fired. Bang! The bottle shattered into pieces, and you couldn’t help but smile with pride. You didn’t realize John was closer than you thought.

"What the hell are you doing?" he shouted, his eyes wide with shock and anger as he ran toward you.

Arthur was right behind him, striding over quickly, his worried expression shifting to anger the moment he saw you holding the gun. He took it from your hands in a swift, almost instinctive motion.

"Where did you learn to do that?" Arthur asked, his deep voice heavy with disapproval.

You tried to explain, your words tumbling out in a rush: "Dutch taught me. I just wanted to show you I could do it, that I’m capable just like you.

John ran a hand over his hat, tilting it back as he let out an exasperated sigh.

"For God’s sake, you’re not like us, you understand? This isn’t something you should be proud of."

Arthur stared at you intently, his eyes searching your face. You weren’t sure if he was feeling disappointment, fear, or some mix of both.