@kingofdirtandnothing
“Hn,”
First, Max reaches out. A firm hand on the barrel of the rifle, using the force to shove it harder into the crook of a folded shoulder. Once he rights it, he juts his chin. “That way.” A sniff; there’s too much sand, on and on forevermore. And such it will be, longer than the shadows have time in a day. “Gun has a kickback. If you hold it like that,” he points to the fixed example, “then you’ll lose yourself less when it goes.”
Experience. It’s all he can imply. The rifle, by no means, is any different looking than most. The muzzle is narrow, skinny. The gun itself seems small for a rifle. Largely unsuspecting but it smarts something awful when it wallops back. As savvy as he is with a gun, Max has even... dropped it after ammo expulsion, loathe to admit it as he is.
...Less dropped, more... unwillingly let go with the sheer impact of it releasing. Flung. Tossed from him by its own power.
“Careful.” A nod accompanies the word, as enforce.