She couldn't remember the first time she'd set her heart on heading out west. It was just a compulsion, something she knew that she should do. She was scraping out a living robbing neighborhoods in New York, but she wasn't happy. New York was haunted for her. She felt the ghost of her father, and even her father's killer, on the corner of every street. She began watching the setting sun and wistfully planning.

She needed some money; there was some that she had some stashed away, although it wasn't a fortune. Then, she needed to be able to protect herself. She spent the first two weeks after acquiring her gun simply looking at it, taking it apart and putting it seamlessly back together. Finally, it was time to fire it. She drove for a couple hours up to a campground, far away from where anyone would see her. She lined up a row of bottles and carefully loaded her weapon. Slowly, she aimed the weapon and cocked the hammer, relishing the satisfying clicks.

The crack of the shot sounded like God's own whip. The smell of sulfur danced in her nostrils.

She'd missed, of course, and it was by a substantial margin. In fact, she pulled the trigger a dozen times before she could even hit the rock the bottles were resting on. 

But she loved it. Karina would drive up to that campground every weekend. More and more of her spare cash went to providing ammunition, but she didn't care. There was something holy in the rhythm of the six shots. It was a practical gun; it took her quite a while to reload, especially at first. But when you're in love, you don't care. She'd spend hours on that campground, every weekend. Eventually, the bottles started exploding with regularity. Then she upped the difficulty. She'd shoot drawing from her holster. She'd shoot walking to and from the area with the bottles. She'd kneel, roll, rise, and fire. She'd shoot sitting down or even lying down. Her gun, once an object, became a part of her. One day she walked farther away than she ever had before: the lone bottle sitting on the rock was gleaming in the sunlight. It was the hardest shot she'd ever attempted. 

She hit it on her fourth attempt. She was ready, if not perfect. It was time to head west.