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shots started finding their mark.

I kept us entertained with survival scenarios. “We haven’t eaten in two weeks,” I’d announce, “and it’s up to me to take down that buffalo.” Then I’d miss the target completely. “Well, our starvation continues.”

But I had some good shots, too. Both of us did.

Gavin eventually brought out a compound bow, too, which was noticeably easier to control and awfully satisfying to shoot.

About seventy-five minutes in, both our arms were tired and our fingers were sore, but we had both improved dramatically in the time we were there. We thanked Gavin and headed for the car.

“Well, what do you think? Do we have a chance?” I asked Gene.

He looked puzzled. “What are you talking about?”

“Competing in the Olympics,” I teased.

He didn’t answer, which was an answer in itself. No medals, no buffalo, no Olympics—just a good hour and a half on a Monday with the man I married all those years ago. That’s a bullseye in my book.