I pressed my back up against the barrier and exhaled through gritted teeth. Despite the half dozen towers standing between me and my target, I knew where he was hiding. The bow gripped firmly in my left hand was a natural extension of my arm; I commanded it as easily as my breath. My three remaining arrows were laced between the fingers of my right hand. I notched one and pulled the string back.
Wait, I told myself. I had to time this just right. He was the only one left standing, and it was up to me to finish it.
I darted out from behind the wall and fired, missing him. My movement triggered his next attack, an arrow loosing wildly. It stuck into the wall just above my head. I dropped to the dirt, the old twinge in my shoulder reminding me to get back on the offensive before I was a pincushion again. Counting my breaths, I replayed his attack in my head. A pattern emerged. I grinned and notched another arrow.
I heard him move behind the barrels to my right, creeping closer.
My bow whipped around the corner, my second shot acting as a decoy. It was instantly replaced by my last arrow. The bolt vibrated in the tower to his left and I waited.
He peered around a tree, arrow ready. His eyes calculated my location based on my decoy and emboldened, he took a step to cross the worn path at his feet. But he was too slow. My final shot had landed square in his chest before he’d seen me. Shock and defeat crumpled his face as I stepped out into the afternoon sun. The pain of his defeat brought him to his knees, raising his bow in one hand and my puffy, felt-tipped arrow in the other.
“And number 16, Lotty Anderson, wins the Dodgebow division for the Chicago Gold team,” the announcer blared through the speakers. “That puts them in first, with the Montreal Marvels second, Milwaukee’s Best third, leaving the Chicago Reds fourth.”