He’d carved the wood himself, to match the dimensions of the metal parts he’d been ceremoniously handed. It had taken weeks, it was important for it to be methodical, every inch of it perfect. The metal parts belonged to the village, and they didn’t have the tools to make more. It was a trust, not a gift.
When it was done, he had a working crossbow. He could hunt now, with the others, with his father.
He still wasn’t considered a man, though. He wouldn’t be a man until the first time he put a bolt through a zombie’s skull.