People have called them superpowers, these skills I have. I don’t know. I’ve never seen them that way. They’re nothing special to me. Just part of who I am.

Mother Nature robbed me of my sight when I was a child, and it’s true about other senses getting stronger. They have to. What other way am I going to get by? I need to know who’s around me by their scent, their sounds, their feel. I mean, Winston can only do so much for me. He’s only a dog.

But a good dog, laying silently by my side, knowing he has to be a good boy like always. There will be treats later. Not that cheap shit either. High-end doggy fare. 

He deserves it. The perfect doggo for this job I have. Knows everything I need and don’t. Trained just for me.

My eyes move despite their lack of vision.

There it is! What I’ve been waiting for. That scent….pork butt cooked low and slow. Twelve hours? Give my compliments to the chef. And, you, wind, thank you. No scent—however good or bad—is ever too far a distance for me. Now I know which direction to go and how far away.

I concentrate, listening, cringing. Chomp, chomp, slurp, snort. The noises of his meal amplified by a thousand percent in my hypersensitive ears. Like a cow at the cud, this one. I can’t lie: A disregard for table manners makes this easier every time.

Winston nudges me, knowing my hatred of those sounds. I rub his head as he settles back down. Good boy. 

I steady my breathing, relax my body.

3… 2…1…

I exhale and slowly guide the tip of my index finger back when my lungs are empty. A quiet pop thanks to the silencer, and my target drops—I hear the thud even this far away. Winston licks my face, proud of what a good job his mistress has done.

“Let’s go, boy.” I break down my rifle and slide it into my messenger bag, then pull out an organic chicken cookie for doggo. “Good Winston!” He takes the treat gently, his whiskers brushing my fingers. 

I grin like I always do. A job well done by both of us.

Before we head down from the roof of the building, I turn towards the sound of screams and sirens. I’ll never know what the man’s done to deserve my bullet, and, in all honesty, I don’t care. This shit pays the bills.