Shrapnel from ricocheting bullets hits Kenny Graham about four times a day. At this point, he just accepts it as part of his job.

As he rolled a cigarette and talked, a piece of flying metal banged viciously off a mechanical contraption with holes in it used to separate sand and rocks, not two feet from Graham’s unprotected hands. “There goes a pellet right there,” he said deadpan, seated in the dry, sandy Santa Ana River in Redlands. “Ask and you shall receive.”