Muscle Memory

Some things remember for us

The rifle had been repaired too many times. Different screws. A replacement stock. A hand-filed trigger. Three separate patches along the receiver where somebody had refused to let the weapon die. Banshee-44 turned it over in his hands.

"Old."

The Guardian across the counter nodded. "It belonged to a friend."

Banshee checked the chamber. Empty. "He bring it here?"

"Used to."

Banshee grunted. His thumb found a loose screw near the rear sight. Without thinking, he tightened it half a turn. The Guardian watched. Banshee moved to the trigger assembly next.

"Pull's too long."

"It was shortened."

"Not enough."

He adjusted it. Then tapped the magazine well twice with the heel of his hand. The magazine dropped free. The Guardian stared.

"How did you know to do that?"

Banshee looked at the rifle.

"Know what?"

"The magazine sticks."

"Happens."

"Not like that."

Banshee said nothing. He replaced the magazine, cycled the action, then shifted the front sight slightly left. The Guardian leaned closer. "He hated the factory alignment."

Banshee froze. For a moment, the workshop seemed quieter.

"You remember him?"

Banshee looked down at the weapon. "No."

"Then how did you know?"

His hands remained on the rifle.

Old habits.

Old repairs.

Things repeated enough times that something remained even after the reason was gone.

Banshee tightened one final screw. "Hands remember things the head doesn't."

He slid the rifle across the counter. The Guardian took it carefully.

"Take care of it."

A faint smile appeared. "He used to say the same thing."

Banshee looked away toward the racks behind him. "Sounds like somebody smart."

The Guardian left. Banshee stood there for a while after.

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