The two cans jumped and twisted with each shot, chasing one another across the ground—father and son stood side-by-side, their right arms outstretched as if in a duel, their revolvers bucking with each shot.
"Done," shouted the older man, a hint of triumph in his voice as his arm dropped to his side; through the haze of gun smoke, he could see his can resting ten feet beyond his son's.
"Damn," muttered his son. "Again?"
The father chuckled, as fathers are wont to do when they've rebuffed a challenge by a younger member of their pride. "No, I think Mom's got dinner ready."
Crossing the yard to the stone farmhouse, the boy asked, "Are you going to tell us another story before we eat?"
"Perhaps."
Boyhood evolved into adolescence—guns and horses were replaced by motorcycles, Jeeps, denim jackets, and girls with red lipstick, long raven hair, and the musky scent of Shalimar on their necks.
In college, a journalism major became economics and finally pre-med. Dissecting cadavers, peering through microscopes, and memorizing energy cycles filled the first two years of medical school; the last two were spent as "junior doctors", wearing white jackets, taking histories, and practicing surgical knots.
After forty-one years as a practicing pediatrician, he hung up his stethoscope and motorcycle helmet. The farmyard of his youth was replaced by a shooting range, and it was his turn to chuckle as he repulsed his son's challenge.
"Maybe next time," he said.
And as they walked to his car, his son asked, "What's the next book about?"