Explosions shatter the high school cafeteria. Lunches are thrown about, students duck for cover under the tables. Bullets whiz dangerously close to heads, bodies.

And there’s blood. Everything is bloody; there’s a girl lying on the tiled floor. She’s not moving. Kids are screaming, teachers look to each other; no one knows what to do. This only happens on the news, this doesn’t happen here. Now it is us who will be on the ten o’clock news.

Someone with a cell phone dials 911. There is screeching, wailing as police arrive on the scene. Students who never cause disruption are sobbing as if the world is ending. It may well be.

Another boy is dead—no, two. They have girls bent over them, stroking them, hoping for any sign of life. A teacher walks over, staggers, and falls. There is a bloody hole in her shirt.

Who’s shooting? I wonder. None of the shots have been aimed at me, in fact I think I have been standing in the same place the whole time.

Then I look down, at the smooth, black revolver in my hand.