From there, Roe led me down a hall to the training range. Step-by-step, we went through what I’d learned. How to pick up the gun, how to load the magazine, how to aim, how to fire, what to do if it jammed. In the bunker-like space, I realized I was far more nervous than I’d expected. I’d figure I’d show up, they’d tell me not to shoot anybody, I’d eyeball the target, and I’d blow a hole in it the size of a quarter, like I’d seen on TV. Instead, I’d spent the last hour and a half going over every detail of firearm safety, and I was choking. Trying not to over-think it, I raised the gun, located the target, and pulled the trigger of the .22. The gun barked, kicking in my hands. I hadn’t hit the black square in the center, but I wasn’t far from it. Roe kept coaching me, I kept firing, and 45 minutes later, when we switched to the 9-mm, which recoiled so markedly that I swore in surprise, I wasn’t half bad at it. In fact, I discovered, I liked it…

A few days later, I emailed TD, asking why women buy guns. “The main reason women want a gun is for a sense of security,” she wrote. “Women want to be able to defend themselves and their family. A firearm can stop an attack of force. It’s also an equalizer for those with reduced mobility.” Equalizer. The word stuck in my mind. A handgun makes the short woman tall, the anxious woman less afraid. Right now, guns are a lightning rod topic, reviled and defended with equal passion. You can’t fire a gun without stepping into a war, without getting into the politics of it. Of course, that doesn’t change the fact that firing a gun made me feel powerful, if only for an afternoon.