Jock had his instructions. He was training Lett individually, to ascertain (Jock’s new word) what sort of sharpshooter Lett was. Lett could choose between an M1 Garand, an M1 carbine, or a Springfield rife. Lett chose his trusty light and compact M1 carbine. He checked the cartridge in the chamber, five in the magazine. He harnessed his weapon, using his strap as a sling to steady his upper arm, tightened just so, all the loops and hooks and buckles in harmony. He lost himself in it and forgot Jock was there standing over him until he commented on the ease in which Lett used the rifle sling like it was second nature to him.

On the third day of their one-on-one training, Jock brought Lett something new—a huge grin. Jock’s gapped teeth were like polished dominoes before the spots went on.

“Excellent work,” Jock said. “You get a reward.”

Jock handed him a sniper version of the M1 carbine, with a telescopic sight.

“You should be proud,” Jock said. “Used one of these myself.”

Lett felt its weight using both hands. “I didn’t know you were a sniper.”

“I was a lot of things, Lett, and so were you.”

Jock had him shoot round after round, into the hundreds. As sniper instructor, Jock didn’t instruct much. He made sure Lett squeezed the trigger with the ball of his finger so he didn’t jolt the weapon firing. He reminded Lett that the most accurate position was prone, with something supporting the stock, with the side of the stock against his cheek. Lett kept using his sling, but Jock also introduced a bipod. Using such a crutch didn’t feel natural to Lett any more than did using a bridge to a pool shark, and there was a certain pride factor, but his accuracy did improve. Lett of course knew about breathing deeply before firing, about firing between heartbeats for utmost stillness. He let Jock tell him anyway. Jock nodded a lot, checking off boxes in his head.

Jock told Lett what their superiors needed from him. They could find expert sharpshooters and cold-blooded killers anywhere. Instead they wanted a man who could always make the right decision, who could keep a cool and level head. They wanted someone who could work alone, on his own.

“You are independent,” Jock reminded him. “You make sound decisions without relying on orders.”

I sure am, Lett thought. He had shown it in spades by deserting a suicidal if not criminal mission during the war and then by making a go of it on the lam despite his terrors, and then by deciding to come here for a cure, where he’d just recently defied their clear orders to kill, and for good reason. He was sound as hell, just not in the ways they knew.

Lett spat out a bitter laugh. He hadn’t meant to. It was out there before he got his lips back around it.