It must’ve been the Fourth because the 12-gauge leaned in the crook, a corner in the space we called our dining room. It was just a kitchen—one square Formica table with a bowl of sugar in the center and four, maybe five stiff-cushioned metal chairs tucked tight. You could extend your arm and touch the stove on one side, the fridge on the other. This year—they tell me—will be my year to blast shells to sky and stars, to aim for the moon. This year, at midnight, I’ll rip off one, maybe three shells from Daddy’s shotgun.
We—my bio brother, my fostered and adopted siblings, some kid named Dennis who lives one block over, and me—play outside till ten. We start with ghosts in the graveyard. We always start with the ghosts. Here, they catch me first because I refuse to hide. I refuse to hide because our yard holds one tree. I refuse to hide because this tree—a 20-foot pine—houses webs, ticks, and spiders. I know these critters will weave into my hair, nest, and make babies. Or worse, find their way into my pores, maybe eat me alive from the inside out. I wish for a weeping willow, like the Hetricks’, a tree with canopy.
This is the mid-70s. I’m in fourth or fifth grade and patriotism is at a high. We wear red, white, and blue tees, shoes, headbands. We enter the bicentennial with pride. We love old Abe and think fondly of Washington’s wooden teeth. Teachers avoid the “other” history—slaves, colonialism, and napalm. Instead, we create stars and stripes from everything—Styrofoam balls, papier-mâché, brown paper lunch bags—which we later turn into Uncle Sam puppets.
I’m nine or ten. This is the first time I shoot a gun, but not the first time I’ve held one. I wish I could tell you specifics. I can tell you what I remember. I remember the cherry-almond scent of Jergens hand lotion. I remember the glass Skippy jar slipping and shattering. I remember Irene, a beautiful teenage girl and her older brother, Elias, who my parents fostered. They lived with us just under a year. I remember Irene’s, No, when Daddy handed her the gun.
As midnight nears, we circle, center in the kitchen, nine, maybe ten of us.
You need to learn how to protect yourself, young lady, Daddy says.
Irene shakes her head. Her eyes well. I lean into the corner, nodding small to show support. We—my adopted sister, Tina, Irene, and me—share a room. When Irene first moved in, she taught me how to French braid, not just hair, but also loaves of bread.
You move three pieces, one over the other, again and again. Like us, she said, three sisters. Her voice, soft like butter. Her hands laced everything with slow, meticulous care.
Here, Cedar Lake, Indiana, and nearing midnight, Irene snatches the gun from Daddy, rests the butt on her shoulder, aims it straight. At him. She looks down the gun. Something inside me rises—glee, hope, a definite Yes. Daddy pushes the muzzle aside and laughs.
You forgot who you’re dealing with, girl, he says.
He yanks the gun from her and hands it to me.
Your turn, Becky.
He offers no warnings, no safety tips, no goggles. Only the gun.
I grab the weapon, the most power given to me at this tender age. My face heats, my hands wet with sweat. I walk outside, letting the screen door squeal shut. The sky, moonless, tenderly lit by the sprinkles of fireflies. I nestle the metal into my shoulder. I think of that time Irene sat on our bed—two girls facing one another.
She asked in the softest way, Did he get you, too?
I only nodded then.
I only nodded for years after.
I look into the night, and all that blackness, and I squeeze. I squeeze that trigger. I squeeze and blast, scattering only fireflies and perhaps one lone widow hidden in the needles of our pine.
Rebecca Evans writes the heart-full guidebooks for survivors. She teaches high school teens in the Juvie system and co-hosts Radio Boise’s Writer to Writer show. She’s a disabled veteran, an avid gardener, and lives with four Newfoundlands and her sons. Her poems and essays have appeared in Brevity, Narratively, The Rumpus, Hypertext Magazine, and more. Her books include Tangled by Blood, Safe Handling, AfterBurn (forthcoming, Moon Tide Press, 2026). You can find her on Twitter and Facebook as @RebeccaWrites and Instagram as @rebeccawrites33.