The cold hard metal cylinder stares back at me, Mossberg label catching the light as it rotate the stock. The hole in the center of the barrel is menacing as if at any time it will explode – and I know that it eventually will. I move out from in front of the barrel and casually observe my brother. Others will watch him too, and they will wonder about the same things I wonder about right now. They will think of what other beings were on the other end of this very same gun. They will think about what I think about today, the aged wood worn smooth from years of use, the barrel with the Mossberg label engraved on the top, my little brother holding it ever so carefully, breathing slowly, lining up the iron sights with the passing squirrel, flitting ever so carefully as Cade leads his shot. They will sit, and just observe the gun, and my brother, and then finally focus back on the gun. They will see the same metal ring, the same iron sights, and the same faded Mossberg label. But the squirrel will never see it coming.