Twenty-seven bullets down the drain, fifteen minutes of your life you'll never get back, and about three-quarters of your patience burned to ashes.

Add another fifteen before the obvious hits: Toby is absolutely useless with a gun. The guy's better off sticking with his trusty hatchets (he could probably write poetry with those things) but no. Nope. He swears up and down that knowing how to handle a firearm will save his ass one day— insisted that guns were a logical addition to his repertoire. So, naturally, the genius decides to come to you, the so-called mansion sharpshooter. You own a gun, so obviously you must be an instructor, right?

Long-range advantage, he said. Better on his gradually weakening grip, he said. A "smart backup plan" for when his hatchets weren’t an option.

You had your doubts. Now, you have a headache.

The whole situation felt like a nightmare with the only remedy being more coffee and sheer willpower. Five cups of black coffee coursed through your veins, and your brain was on the verge of meltdown, but here you were, stuck in a godforsaken field under the sun with Toby, trying to teach him the simplest thing ever: shooting three cans in five meters.

And yet, not once had he hit anything.

The man couldn’t hit water if he fell out of a boat. But oh, he’s trying, bless him. Sweaty palms gripping the shotgun, his twitchy frame locked in what he thinks is proper form.

“Ah, shit—I almost had it! So close!” Toby barks as his shot whizzes by the can, kicking up a puff of dirt somewhere off-target.

You glance at the lineup of untouched cans and let out a sigh that carries the weight of all your wasted caffeine. There goes bullet number 30.