It was about as close to a perfect day as Clint Barton had ever experienced. The sun was high in the sky, the air warm, yet breezy. He had worked hard for this homestead—had been through so much over the years in the service of first S.H.I.E.L.D., and then the Avengers. The farmhouse was his reward, his respite, his safe place.

And he had a family with whom to share it.

Clint took a lungful of fresh air, and stood next to his daughter, Lila. In her hands, she grasped a bow.

“Okay, hold on,” Clint cautioned, instructing her on the finer points of archery. “Don't shoot.”

Looking over his shoulder, Clint saw his wife, Laura, preparing their meal at a nearby picnic table. He smiled, then turned his attention back to Lila. He held a handful of arrows in his hand, as he moved around behind his daughter.

“You see where you're going?” Clint checked, nodding his head slightly to indicate the target hanging from a tree some yards away.

“Mm-hmm,” Lila answered.

“Okay. Now, let's worry about how you get there,” Clint said. “Just gotta move your foot here ...” He continued the lesson by using the toe of his boot to guide and reposition Lila's left foot, so it was pointing in the precise direction.

“Point your toe this way,” he encouraged. “Right here.”

Standing behind Lila, Clint helped adjust her posture, to make sure she had the proper archery stance. Together, they eyed the target.

“Your hips, here. Okay? Can you see?”

“Yeah.”

Then Clint took a handful of Lila's hair, brushing it in front of her eyes, teasing her.

“How about now? Can you see now?”

Lila started to laugh. “No!”

Clint continued to mess with his daughter's view, covering one of her eyes with his hand.

“How about now?” Clint asked, and now they were both laughing.

While Clint handed Lila an arrow, he took note of his two sons, Nathaniel and Cooper, playing catch in a field behind them. Both boys were getting so big.

“All right. Ready? Three fingers,” Clint reminded Lila of her grip on the bow string.

“Nice!” came the call from afar.

Clint turned his head slightly, to see Cooper catching a baseball with his glove. The boy stepped forward with his right foot, throwing the ball to his brother. Nathaniel caught it in his glove with ease. Then it was back to Cooper.

“Nice throw, kiddo!” Laura shouted from the picnic table. “Hey, you guys want mayo? Or mustard? Or both?”

Lila had taken the arrow, and placed it into the bow. She held it with three fingers, just like her dad had taught her. She took aim at the target and focused, then suddenly relaxed her stance, and lowered the bow and arrow. Lila looked at her dad like she couldn't believe what she just heard.

“Who puts mayo on a hot dog?” Lila said, and she laughed again.

Clint waved to his wife. “Probably your brothers,” he joked as an aside to Lila. Then he yelled, “Uh, two mustards, please! Thanks, Mama!”

“Got it!” Laura called back. Then she turned to Nathaniel. “Nate, mayo or mustard?”

“How about ketchup?” Nate requested.

“Or ketchup, I got ketchup, too,” Laura acknowledged.

Clint had moved several feet behind Lila to give her space, as she raised the bow and aimed the arrow at the target.

“Mind your elbow,” Clint said, watching her every move.

She inhaled, exhaled, and let the arrow loose from the bow. It shot through the air and found its target a split second later, landing dead center in the bullseye.

Clint smiled, stepped forward and high-fived Lila.

“Good job, Hawkeye,” Clint exclaimed proudly. “Go get your arrow.”

“Hey, guys! Enough practice! Soup's on!” Laura called out from the picnic table.

“All right. We're coming. We're hungry!” Clint replied. He walked over to the target, but didn't see Lila anywhere. He scanned around, but found no sign of his daughter. “Lila, let's go. Lila?” Where was she?

Taking a few more steps, Clint focused his gaze on the target on the tree. Then he looked down beneath it and picked something up off the ground.

Lila's arrow.

Where had she gone?

“Honey?” Clint yelled.

But there was no reply.

“Hey, babe?” Still no response. It suddenly seemed so quiet.

Clint walked away from the target, toward the field and the picnic table. But he saw no sign of Laura, nor any of Cooper and Nathaniel, either. His fingers released the arrow, which dropped as he sprinted toward the table looking wildly all around him.

“Babe? Babe?” Clint hollered, but received no reply. Then he whistled loudly. “Boys! Boys?  Laura!”

But there was no one to answer him. It was just Clint Barton, standing in the field behind his family farmhouse.

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