Dunphy House
Phil Dunphy was up early. Not unusually early—just excited early.
Today wasn't his first time with the bow.
He called it a "warning shot." Everyone else called it a disaster. The bowstring had snapped against his arm, the arrow veered hard left, and it smacked into a lawn chair two yards off target. Even he had to admit—it went worse than expected.
Still, in true Dunphy fashion, he insisted he looked "surprisingly cool mid-draw." And today, he was ready for round two.
He flipped a pancake with one hand while scrolling through slow-motion replays of Olympic archers on YouTube with the other. He even paused on a frame and tried to mimic the stance of a Korean gold medalist—right as the pancake nearly slid off the pan.
Behind him, Claire moved with clinical precision, trying to finish laundry, update the calendar, and keep the house from collapsing before noon. Luke zig-zagged through the kitchen, tossing a foam ball into the air like he was training for a one-man circus. Alex sat at the counter, radiating judgment without even trying.
Without looking up from her book, Alex said flatly, "Just… try not to embarrass me, okay? Samuel actually has schoolwork to do, and the last thing he needs is a live performance of 'Phil Dunphy: Backyard Warrior.'"
"Backyard Warrior sounds awesome! Can I be his sidekick?" Luke shouted from across the kitchen, nearly tripping over his own feet as he flung the foam ball into the air again.
Samuel's House
Michael leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching me move around the kitchen. "I'll be honest," he said with a small smile, "I was worried when we moved. New town, new school… I didn't know if you'd fit in right away. But first week in and you're already part of the football team—and now you've got friends from school coming over? Who could've imagined?"
I glanced over, eyebrows raised. "Huh. I didn't know you were stressing about that," I said, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge. "But hey—first things first, I've got to show the Dunphys how to use a bow without risking property damage."
I took a sip and leaned against the counter, Michael's words still echoing in the back of my mind. Did he really think I'd be avoiding everyone at school?
Well… yeah. That was the plan. Lay low, stay quiet. But even then, it turned out my cool charm wasn't exactly stealth-mode. Apparently, that wasn't enough to keep people away.
I smirked, setting the bottle down on the counter. "And what about you?" I asked, nudging Michael with my elbow. "You've got to join a bunch of rookies next week, right? You'll be the oldest rookie in L.A. history."
Michael raised an eyebrow. "Rude. And also not true—I'm not a rookie. I'm just joining during their first week. And apparently, there's someone older than me starting, so I'm not even the ancient one in the room."
He shook his head with a half-grin. "Technically, I'm not in a crisis."
"Sure," I said, still grinning. "Just a slow-motion one."
I grabbed my water again and added with a smirk, "Is that even possible? Can someone from retiring age join the police?"
Before he could fire back, the doorbell rang—three quick, impatient chimes in a row, like whoever was on the other side was trying to summon the whole house.
I tilted my head toward the door. "Yep, that's definitely them. Only the Dunphys would ring the bell like it's a game show buzzer. That's gotta be Luke."
The moment I opened the door, Luke didn't even say hello—he just pointed straight past me to the backyard. "Can I shoot it? Please? Just once—before anyone else touches it!"
Behind him, Phil strolled in like he owned the place, already reaching for Michael's hand with a big grin. "Michael, my man! Looking sharp. Smells like confidence and responsibility in here."
Then he turned to me with a finger raised like he'd just remembered something important. "Oh—and Alex will be coming by in about an hour. Something about finishing a project or recalibrating her tolerance for humanity—I stopped listening halfway through. But she's coming."
I stepped aside with a small grin. "Of course—but let me grab the right bow first. Unless you want to end up red-faced and stuck halfway like last time."
Luke puffed out his chest. "I trained this week. I did, like, twenty push-ups. I can totally pull the bow this time."
I raised an eyebrow and headed over to grab the bow he'd struggled with last time. "Uh-huh. Just don't pull something before you pull the string." I handed it over as Luke lit up, gripping it like he was about to enter an archery tournament. To his credit, he seemed more determined—though I had a feeling his training mostly meant flexing in the mirror and watching YouTube videos.
Luke planted his feet, drew in a dramatic breath, and started pulling the string back with all the confidence in the world. Nothing happened. His arms shook, his face turned red, and after a solid minute of grunting and twisting like he was wrestling a ghost, the bowstring hadn't moved an inch. Finally, he let out a breathless sigh and handed it back, defeated. "Okay… maybe it's glued."
I chuckled. "Maybe a few more push-ups and you'll have it next time." That made him light up with pride, like I'd just handed him a badge of honor. "Let's get the other bow," I added, nodding toward the backyard.
When I grabbed the other bow, I turned to Phil. "So, you coming?"
He perked up instantly, clapped his hands once, and followed without hesitation. Luke trailed right behind him, and just like that, we all made our way outside.
When they were here during the week, they'd seen my old setup—a couple of stacked cans, torn-up cardboard targets duct-taped to sticks, and whatever else I could scavenge from the garage. It worked for practicing form, but it was about as professional as a backyard science project.
This time was different. My gear had finally arrived—real target buds, crisp and solid, lined up clean in the center of the yard. They were spaced perfectly for straight shooting practice, nothing fancy.
But I couldn't help myself. I'd already started experimenting.
A few of the targets were tied to low-hanging branches, angled just slightly off-center. One or two were even set up to move—nothing wild, just a slow swing when I pulled the wire from the fence.
The Dunphys wouldn't be touching those. They were here for the basics—no swinging targets, no weird angles. Just stand, pull, shoot… and hopefully not hit anything expensive.
"Backyard Warrior sounds awesome! Can I be his sidekick?" Luke shouted from across the kitchen, nearly tripping over his own feet as he flung the foam ball into the air again.
The moment they stepped into the yard, Luke's eyes lit up. "Whoa! These are actual targets!" he said, running up to one and gently tapping the surface like it might activate something. "This is so legit. I'm totally gonna nail one straight in the middle."
Phil followed close behind, arms crossed, nodding like a coach surveying his new training grounds. "Okay, this is impressive. Really impressive. These are the real deal." Then his eyes caught the slight sway of a target hanging from one of the branches. "Wait a second… are those moving?" He pointed, grinning. "Did you set that up yourself? That's genius. Challenging, unpredictable—adds that real-world pressure. I like it."
Michael stepped out behind them, hands in his pockets, watching their reactions with mild amusement. "Yeah, the kid got bored shooting straight," he said casually. "Likes to make it more difficult. I don't even get it—he throws tennis balls in the air and tries to shoot them before they hit the ground."
Phil and Luke both turned to him, eyes wide like he'd just told them Samuel could fly.
"Wait—he does what?"
"Can we see that?" Luke asked, already looking around for tennis balls like they'd magically appear.
I looked a little embarrassed, rubbing the back of my neck as their eyes locked onto me like I was some kind of backyard sniper. "I've never actually hit one," I muttered. "I just... try sometimes when I'm bored." I shot a quick glance at Michael. Why would he say that? Now they were looking at me like I was about to split a bullet in midair.
They still looked at me expectantly—wide-eyed, hopeful, like I was about to perform a magic trick. I sighed. Trying to explain it would be a waste of time. Better to just show them, miss like usual, and let the hype die on its own. Then they'd go back to shooting straight like normal people, and I could quietly retire from the role of "guy who maybe hits tennis balls in the air."
I tossed the ball up without thinking—just a quick, clean motion, already bracing myself for the usual miss. My fingers found the string, anchor, release. I expected the soft thud of failure.Instead—crack. The arrow struck the tennis ball mid-air, sending it spinning off course before it lodged itself between two branches in the tree.
For a second, nobody said anything. Not even me.
Luke broke the silence first, his voice barely above a whisper. "That... was so... cool." Then, like someone had hit a switch, he exploded. "That was the coolest thing I've ever seen! You hit it! In the air! It's in the tree! Samuel, you're like—like a ninja archer or something!"
Even Phil couldn't contain himself. "That was incredible! I didn't know arrows could even do that." He looked at Michael, wide-eyed. "Do you think it's genetic? Because if so, I might need to check my ancestry app."
My uncle just looked at me, stunned. He didn't say anything at first, just stared at the tree like it was proof of something he hadn't quite believed. The first time he saw me tossing tennis balls in the air, he'd written it off as some weird habit. A waste of arrows. Something I'd never actually manage to do.
But now? he hit it.
For a second, I just stood there, frozen.
I actually hit it.
I stared up at the tennis ball lodged in the tree, the arrow still sticking out of it like some weird badge of honor. At first, I was shocked—more than anyone. I hadn't expected to hit it. Not even close.
But then I heard Luke's voice, practically vibrating with excitement, and something settled in my chest.
Yeah... this is cool.
I never thought I'd actually reach this level—where something I did could get that kind of reaction. And suddenly, I wanted to see if it was a fluke or something more.
"Well," I said, stepping back into place, a small grin tugging at the corner of my mouth, "let me see if I can do it again."
Everyone instantly quieted, eyes locked in. Luke was practically holding his breath. Even Phil leaned forward like he was courtside at a championship match.
I tossed the next ball into the air, eyes locked on it like nothing else existed. Time felt slower somehow—each heartbeat, each breath measured. I drew the string, anchored, exhaled, and let it fly.
The arrow sliced through the air with a sharp snap—but this time, it wasn't perfect.
It clipped the very edge of the ball, just enough to send it spinning off-course. No clean impact, no satisfying thunk—just a faint, awkward twist in its flight. The ball hit the grass a second later with a soft, unimpressive bounce.
So close.But not enough.
When the second ball missed, Luke screamed, "So close! Try again!"
I shook my head with a half-smile. "It was probably a lucky shot," I said, lowering the bow. "You guys still want to learn some actual shooting?"
But it was already obvious—Phil and Luke were all in now. They'd already thought archery was cool, but after that little display? They looked like they were ready to train for the Olympics. Both of them practically lit up, nodding before I even finished the question.
I motioned them over to the shooting line and started walking them through the basics. "Alright, first thing—don't just yank the string back like you're starting a lawnmower," I said, handing the bow to Phil. "You need to draw it smooth, controlled. Let the tension build with your back, not your arms."
They watched closely, actually paying attention for once. I stepped behind Luke and adjusted his stance. "Feet shoulder-width apart, shoulders relaxed. And breathe—slow in, slow out. Your breathing controls your focus." Phil nodded like he was preparing for a TED Talk. Luke was already holding his breath.
Their first few shots were... rough. Phil's arrow didn't even make it to the target the first time—it dipped halfway and skidded across the grass like a paper airplane. Luke's arrow veered so far to the left it thudded into the fence with a sad little wobble. Both of them groaned, but neither gave up.
By the fifth shot, though, they were getting closer. The arrows started landing around the edges of the targets—still wide, but at least they were hitting something. Phil whooped after his glanced off the rim and shouted, "Progress!" Luke pumped his fist like he'd just scored a touchdown.
After about thirty minutes, something clicked. Their breathing settled, their form cleaned up, and their arrows started to land solidly in the center zone—not perfect, but consistent. I had to admit, I was impressed. Most people gave up before they got this far.
Just as Phil let out a celebratory "Bullseye, baby!" the doorbell rang again.
I handed the bow off to Luke and jogged back toward the house, wiping my hands on my shirt. When I opened the door, Dylan, Alex, and Tori were all standing there mid-conversation, their voices overlapping in that casual, easy rhythm of people who knew each other well. Alex was holding her laptop bag like it was part of her body, Tori had a half-smile on her face, and Dylan—of course—was talking with his hands like he was explaining a conspiracy theory.
I stepped aside and welcomed them in with a quick nod. "Come on in."
As they entered, their eyes immediately wandered—first taking in the living room, then drifting toward the sliding glass door that looked out into the backyard. There, they saw Luke and Phil still holding their bows, lined up like they were mid-lesson, and Michael standing nearby, arms crossed, watching with a proud little smile. The targets scattered across the yard said everything.
The moment Phil spotted Alex, he lit up like a kid showing off a science project. "Hey Alex!" he shouted, waving the bow in the air a little too enthusiastically. "I'm a real pro already! Might have found my true calling out here."
Alex blinked, barely inside the house, and already regretted everything. Five seconds in… and he's already embarrassing me.She didn't say a word—just stared at the floor like maybe it would open up and swallow her.
Dylan stepped closer to the glass door, watching Luke and Phil line up their next shots like they were in some kind of backyard tournament. His eyes tracked over the setup—the bows, the targets, the movement—and then back to Samuel.
"Dude," he said, nudging him with a grin, "you really like this archery stuff, huh?"
Tori nodded, clearly impressed. "It's kind of cool. I didn't know you were this into it. It looks… serious."
Dylan tilted his head. "Serious and fun," he added quickly. Then, without even hesitating, he turned to Samuel. "Alright, I gotta try. No way I'm walking out of here without at least one shot."
When Luke and Phil noticed someone new had joined the party, they perked up immediately. "So," Luke said, puffing out his chest, "you ever shoot a bow before?" He tried to sound casual, like this was just another day in the life of an elite archer.
Dylan shook his head. "Nope. First time."
That was all Luke needed. He launched straight into a full explanation—the same one I gave him barely an hour ago—as if he'd been born with a bow in his hands. "Okay, so first thing? Your breath has to match your pull," he said, adopting a serious tone. "You don't just yank the string—you breathe with it. Feel the rhythm. Become the arrow."
Tori drifted closer to the backyard door, her eyes following Dylan and Luke like she was debating whether to join in. "I kind of want to try too," she admitted, glancing at Samuel with a small smile. "It actually looks kind of fun."
Alex, standing off to the side with her arms crossed and her bag still over her shoulder, let out a slow, pointed sigh. "Right. Fun. Because that's exactly what we came here for. Not, you know… the history project that's due Monday."
I glanced her way, half-apologetic, half-amused. The sun was still up, the bows were still out, and I figured we had a little time.
But yeah… she was right.
After a few more missed shots, the energy fizzled. The magic of that tennis ball trick didn't stick—without the surprise and adrenaline, the bow started to feel heavier, and the targets less exciting. Luke and Dylan quietly set theirs down, muttering something about sore arms and second attempts.
Practice was over. The arrows were done flying.Now it was time to see if we could survive the group work.