So, You Want to Stop the Next School Shooter?

I stole his gun. I hid it, unloaded and wrapped in a towel, in a box of chintzy craft supplies, knitting, and fashion accessories I’d accrued as a teenager. It was the last place he’d look. I left the ammo in his dresser drawer. It was my way of mocking him, as if to say, “I’ve taken your power, but left the bullets so you can play marbles with them.”