My heartbeat slows. My breathing shallows. I adjust for the slight breeze, the way I've done a dozen times.

I can't make myself take the shot.

Father yanks the rifle from my hands, clipping on a scope.

He pulls the trigger and the target falls over, dead. I choke back a sob.

The knuckles of his open hand strike my cheekbone.

"I raised you better," he says, disappointment thick in his voice.

"She was pregnant!" I protest.

"Why does that make a difference? No kill, no payment."

And no payment means no food.

My stomach growls.

"I won't fail again."