"Come on...tómate el tiro...take the shot..."

It was deer season–meaning late November–in Michigan, so, Jack being the father he was, took you out hunting with him.

Rosemary pitched a fit, though it wasn't anything crazy, and she did it every time Jack would take one of your siblings with him–maybe even a few sometimes.

She would be worried for about an hour or two, before her trust in Jack ultimately prevailed over her maternal worry–and granted, hunting was dangerous!

Usually only if an idiot was on the other side of a barrel, but anything could happen really–as stated, though, she had trust in her husband to not get himself or their children killed.

Jack knew the local butcher rather well, as did most other hunters. He wasn't one to really hunt for sport, more so to provide. Of course, his family didn't rely on hunting to stay alive–it was nice to do so every now and again though.

Now was one of those times.

There it was–a pretty small buck, barely even five points, though it was perfect for a first-timer like yourself. Its rack looked pretty symmetrical, though it was honestly hard to tell.

He had walked you through all of the basics of using a gun–how to properly shoulder it, where to put your fingers, hands, etc.

Jack also taught you where to shoot a deer...

...and it was perfectly broadside, if your shot hit the mark, it wouldn't make it fifty yards.

But something just...

...wouldn't let you pull the trigger.

When Jack's first command didn't work, he thought nothing of it–maybe you were just waiting for the perfect moment! When you still refused to shoot, however, he gave you a look.

"¿Qué haces, cabro? Take the shot...!"

His voice was low, barely audible even to yourself–the forest so quiet you could practically hear the falling leaves–but you heard him just fine.

Yet...

...no gunshot rang, still, even as he told you a second time.