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An eleven-year-old can get a mite fidgety out in the woods with a big 12 gauge laid across his knobby knees, especially when it’s loaded to the gills with double-aught buck. The enormity of the moment had been a long time coming for me. I’d endured my BB gun years with only occasional window breakage. Shucks, my little brother, Heath, still had both eyes, and I hadn’t shot him at all after I’d moved up to my .410 single-shot.
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