Peter’s jaw dropped-he was being told to hold the rifle, after what had happened with Josie? Maybe it was because his father was here to supervise, or maybe this was a trick and he was going to get punished for wanting to hold it again. Tentative, he reached for it-surprised, as he had been before, at how incredibly heavy it was. On Joey’s computer game, Big Buck Hunter, the characters swung their rifles around as if they were feather-light.

It wasn’t a trick. His father wanted him to help, for real. Peter watched him reach for another tin-gun oil-and dribble some onto a clean rag. “We wipe down the bolt and put a drop on the firing pin…. You want to know how a gun works, Peter? Come over here.” He pointed out the firing pin, a teensy circle inside the circle of the bolt. “Inside the bolt, where you can’t see it, there’s a big spring. When you pull the trigger, it releases the spring, which hits this firing pin and pushes it out just the tiniest bit-” He held his thumb and forefinger apart just a fraction of an inch, for illustration. “That firing pin hits the center of a brass bullet…and dents a little silver button called the primer. The dent sets off the charge, which is gunpowder inside the brass casing. You’ve seen a bullet-how it gets thinner and thinner at the end? That skinny part holds the actual bullet, and when the gunpowder goes off, it creates pressure behind the bullet and pushes it from behind.”

Peter’s father took the bolt out of his hands, wiped it with oil, and set it aside. “Now look into the barrel.” He pointed the gun as if he were going to shoot at a lightbulb on the ceiling. “What do you see?”

Peter peeked into the open barrel from behind. “It’s like the noodles Mom makes for lunch.”

“Yeah, I guess it is. Rotini? Is that what they’re called? The twists in the barrel are like a screw. As the bullet gets pushed out, these grooves make the bullet turn. Kind of like when you throw a football and put some spin on it.”

Peter had tried to do that in the backyard with his father and Joey, but his hand was too small or the football was too big and when he tried to make a pass, mostly it just crashed at his own feet.

“If the bullet comes out spinning, it can fly straight without wobbling.” His father began to fiddle with a long rod that had a loop of wire on the end. Sticking a patch into the loop, he dipped it in solvent. “The gunpowder leaves gunk inside the barrel, though,” he said. “And that’s what we have to clean off.”

Peter watched his father jam the rod into the barrel, up and down, like he was churning butter. He put on a clean patch and ran it through the barrel again, and then another, until they didn’t come out streaked black anymore. “When I was your age, my father showed me how to do this, too.” He threw the patch out in the trash. “One day, you and I will go hunting.”

Peter couldn’t contain himself at the very thought of this. He-who couldn’t throw a football or dribble a soccer ball or even swim very well-was going to go hunting with his father? He loved the thought of leaving Joey at home. He wondered how long he’d have to wait for this outing-how it would feel to be doing something with his father that was just theirs.

“Ah,” his father said. “Now, look down the barrel again.”

Peter grabbed the gun backward, looking down through the muzzle, the barrel of the gun pressed up against his face near his eye. “Jesus, Peter!” his father said, taking it out of his hands. “Not like that! You’ve got it backward!” He turned the gun so that the barrel was facing away from Peter. “Even though the bolt’s way over there-and it’s safe-you don’t ever look down the muzzle of a rifle. You don’t point a gun at something you don’t want to kill.”

Peter squinted, looking into the barrel the right way. It was blinding, silver, shiny. Perfect.

His father rubbed down the outside of the barrel with oil. “Now, pull the trigger.”

Peter stared at him. Even he knew you didn’t do that.

“It’s safe,” his father repeated. “It’s what we need to do to reassemble the gun.”

Peter hesitantly curled his finger around the half-moon of metal and pulled. It released a catch so that the bolt his father was holding slid into place.

He watched his father take the rifle back to the gun cabinet. “People who get upset about guns don’t know them,” his father said. “If you know them, you can handle them safely.”

Peter watched his father lock up the gun case. He understood what his father was trying to say: The mystery of the rifle-the very thing that had sparked him to steal the key to the cabinet from his father’s underwear drawer and show Josie-was no longer quite as compelling. Now that he’d seen it taken apart and put back together, he saw the firearm for what it was: a collection of fitted metal, the sum of its parts.

A gun was nothing, really, without a person behind it.

Whether or not you believe in Fate comes down to one thing: who you blame when something goes wrong. Do you think it’s your fault-that if you’d tried better, or worked harder, it wouldn’t have happened? Or do you just chalk it up to circumstance?

I know people who’ll hear about the people who died, and will say it was God’s will. I know people who’ll say it was bad luck. And then there’s my personal favorite: They were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Then again, you could say the same thing about me, couldn’t you?

The Day After

For Peter’s sixth Christmas, he’d been given a fish. It was one of those Japanese fighting fish, a beta with a shredded tissue-thin tail that trailed like the gown of a movie star. Peter named it Wolverine and spent hours staring at its moonbeam scales, its sequin eye. But after a few days, he started to imagine what it would be like to have only a bowl to explore. He wondered if the fish hovered over the tendril of plastic plant each time it passed because there was something new and amazing he’d discovered about its shape and size, or because it was a way to count another lap.

Peter started waking up in the middle of the night to see if his fish ever slept, but no matter what time it was, Wolverine was swimming. He thought about what the fish saw: a magnified eyeball, rising like a sun through the thick glass bowl. He’d listen to Pastor Ron at church, talking about God seeing everything, and he wondered if that was what he was to Wolverine.

As he sat in a cell at the Grafton County jail, Peter tried to remember what had happened to his fish. It died, he supposed. He’d probably watched it to death.

He stared up at the camera in the corner of the cell, which blinked at him impassively. They-whoever they were-wanted to make sure he didn’t kill himself before he was publicly crucified. To this end, his cell didn’t have a cot or a pillow or even a mat-just a hard bench, and that stupid camera.

Then again, maybe this was a good thing. As far as he could tell, he was alone in this little pod of single cells. He’d been terrified when the sheriff’s car pulled up in front of the jail. He’d watched all the TV shows; he knew what happened in places like this. The whole time he was being processed, Peter had kept his mouth shut-not because he was so tough, but because he was afraid that if he opened it he would start to cry, and not remember how to stop. There was the swordfight sound of metal being drawn across metal, and then footsteps. Peter stayed where he was, his hands locked between his knees, his shoulders hunched. He didn’t want to look too eager; he didn’t want to look pathetic. Invisibility, actually, was something he was pretty good at. He’d perfected it over the past twelve years.

A correctional officer stopped in front of his cell. “You’ve got a visitor,” he said, and he opened the door.

Peter got up slowly. He looked up at the camera, and then followed the officer down a pitted gray hallway.