Sam found the shotgun where he’d left it. A 12-gauge Remington pump, his favorite, a classic gun, really, with its clean line and walnut stock. His father had preferred an automatic.

The old man was no kind of wing shot, but he could work a duck call as sweet as anybody. That and the Labs he trained made him a good man to have with you on a hunt. Not so good other times. Jesus, no!

Sam felt the usual jumble of emotions. He opened a box of shells, and eased one out, pinching the brass between thumb and forefinger.

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I wrote this story for the 100 Word Challenge #405 at Velvet Verbosity.