The weight of the piglets was surprising, honestly; he's from the Midwest, sure, but he'd never been a farmer. Even though his dad had been a butcher, they'd always gotten their pigs both already dead and adult, so that made a pretty big difference. The little pig wriggled at being held by an unfamiliar person, but Clint had three children - he was used to holding squirming young things. Maybe too used to it, to anyone paying attention. Hiking the piglet up under his arm better, he nodded at Moana's intent to redo the throws.

"You're doing it too hard - remember, it's not that heavy and the board's not that far away. The dart's also gonna fall a little as it travels, but not that much. But that was really good for a first go."

Crossing the room, Clint yanked the darts she'd thrown as well as the four he'd tossed himself out of the board, coming back to hold them out to her again. "It's just my thing. And I've been doing it a lot longer than you." A lot longer than she's been alive, even. God did that make him feel old. "Keep trying and you'll be hitting dead on the center."