He had not entered Ridgeway Sporting Arms because he wanted excitement.
He came because three homes along Hollow Creek Road had been broken into during the previous six weeks.
The intruders came at night.
They targeted older residents living outside town.
Dorothy Hines, a retired schoolteacher who lived less than two miles from Benjamin, woke to find a stranger standing inside her bedroom.
The man ran when she screamed.
Dorothy suffered a heart attack before deputies arrived.
She survived, but remained in the hospital for twelve days.
At the Veterans of Foreign Wars hall, people discussed security cameras, locks, dogs, and weapons.
Benjamin listened.
Then he went home to a dark house where every sound carried farther than it had when Elaine was alive.
The next morning, he drove into town.
Now he sat beside a window while three young men laughed about him.
Forty minutes passed.
A black Ford pickup entered the lot.
The driver parked beside Benjamin’s old truck.
A broad-shouldered man in his early fifties stepped out carrying a cardboard inventory box beneath one arm and a paper bag of sandwiches in the other.
His name was Daniel Ross.
Daniel had opened Ridgeway Sporting Arms after retiring from the Marine Corps as a master sergeant.
He ran the business according to three rules.
Every firearm was handled safely.
Every customer was treated respectfully.
Anyone too careless for either rule did not remain employed.
Daniel pushed through the front door.
The bell rang.
“Lunch is here,” he announced.
Kyle turned.
“Perfect timing. We’ve got this old guy who—”