Neon says Shoot Out! and I remember the first time I lifted one of those air rifles—his hands over mine, the smell of oil and sugar, the carny telling me to breathe. We were kids with pockets full of quarters and not enough rent. He swore he’d ring that bell, win me the red bike so we could ride the river road out of town. Pop, pop, pop; close enough to feel it, never enough to hear it. We settled for a stuffed dog and a fight, and the next week he was gone before the lights cooled.
Now I walk past with tip money in my pocket and the same green glow in my chest. The shots still sound like promises; the prizes still hang just high enough to break your heart polite. I don’t stop. I tip my hat, keep moving, and let the memory finish the game for us. Another try, another almost, the bell forever quiet.
