{CROSSWAYSNET}

The boy stares at the eye as it stops seeing him. A frozen gaze that freezes the moment. He holds his breath by instinct. The weight seems to grow in his hand. His other drops the slingshot to the grass below. He feels a slight tap on his sneaker. A single red drop spreads to a stain on his shoelace.

I did this.

A twitch in his palm; a rustle of feathers. The dove jerks and rolls over. Will it fly? A nail scratches his wrist, drawing a drop of his own.

A noise closes from behind. “Good shot, son!"