Stricken

We’re sitting in Uncle Sam’s Subs, splitting a cheesesteak, when Shelley says: I think I should buy a gun. I look up at her puffy face, and she’s staring, her hands shaking. On medication for schizophrenia, she’s serious. I say,Tell me why you need a gun. Her voice getting louder:You know why. No, no I don’t, I say. In case I need it. I might need it to shoot somebody. I give her a hard look —You don’t need a gun. No one is after you.