He just stood there, staring off into space, his breath rising above him in the calm winter morning. This image should be calming, but it isn’t. It’s mainly the crosshair centered on the back of his neck that’s ruining the mood. My fingers feel like they’re frozen to my rifle. I try and relax them, but I can’t. All I can do is stare at that one spot on the back of his neck. I should aim higher, shouldn’t I? Aren’t you supposed to compensate for the drop of the bullet, or the wind or something? The crosshair twitches, moving from the spot to his trucker hat and back again. I finally rest it between the two, yet another compromise. I think about all the others, why I’m here, but I push that to the back of my mind, shuddering slightly. He’s not moving. Why isn’t he moving? I can’t stop shaking now. This is crazy. I should just finish it and go home. Or just go home. Anything. Maybe just stand up and talk to him. I can still do that, right? Right? I stare through the scope. Think! Move! Do something!