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Mr. Henderson bought a ticket for the 9 p.m. showing of Jurassic World at the Cinemark Palace movie theater in Boca Raton. Armed with an AR-15 assault rifle, he entered the theater in darkness and took a seat in the back.

  Fifteen minutes into the movie Mr. Henderson was seen on camera leaving the theater to use the restroom. When he returned minutes later, he did not retake his seat. His stood near the back wall of the theater and opened fire into the near-capacity crowd.

  Twenty-two people were killed, while dozens more were seriously injured. Mr. Henderson then dropped his weapon, got down on his knees and, with his hands in the air, cried as he waited for authorities to arrive and take him into custody.

  Police say the weapon was purchased legally through a local gun shop, and that Mr. Henderson had no history of violent behavior. No motive is currently known and no further information is available at this time.

  My god.

  As terrible as I felt for the victims and their families, there was one selfish thought I just couldn’t shake.

  That theater was only a few miles from our house. Sara and I had seen countless movies there. The kids too. We’d sat in those same seats...

  Sometimes I hated Facebook.

  Chapter 4

  I’d met Ingo Randall several years ago. He was married to Deya, one of Sara’s best friends. It was a couples’ night out, arranged by the wives.

  Ingo and I hit it off instantly.

  Whether it was sports, cars, movies, food or politics, we never lacked for things to talk about. And we rarely had a difference of opinion. We saw eye to eye on just about everything.

  Not long after the couples’ night, we started getting together on our own. We’d meet for lunch, play poker, hit golf balls, or just grab a beer. We also hung out on game night with the wives and a few other couples. We even did one of those Escape Rooms with a group of friends.

  A few months after we met, Deya and the kids returned to her hometown in Australia to take care of her sick mom. At least that was the story they told us. Deya had no plans to return any time soon. Ingo visited when he could, but he had to stay behind to manage his business.

  Despite his family situation, Ingo was fun to be around. He had a great sense of humor and told some incredible stories. Originally from Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe, his background was in stark contrast to my vanilla upbringing, and he loved to point out just how easy I’d had it.

  From the late ’60s to the early ’80s, during Ingo’s childhood, Rhodesia was a war zone. Fighting regularly broke out between government soldiers and “terrorists” or “freedom fighters,” as they came to be called. What they really were were poorly trained African soldiers supplied by Russia and Czechoslovakia in exchange for mining rights—diamonds and uranium mainly.

  These freedom fighters would sneak across the border into Rhodesia, attack a farm, rape, kill and pillage, and sneak back across the border with whatever loot they found.

  Joining the Rhodesian Army was mandatory after high school. It was supposed to be a two-year term, and then time was spent in the reserves. But reservists were frequently called up and sent back into action.

  Ingo began learning about guns when he was nine or ten. Most of his knowledge came from delinquent friends who had nothing better to do. He started with pellet guns before learning how to shoot a .22 caliber rifle.

  “In Rhodesia, everyone walks around with a gun,” he’d once said.

  He learned to hunt rabbits and impala, got into target shooting, began entering competitions, and started winning them regularly.

  By the time he entered the army at eighteen, he was well-versed in firearms and a better shot than most of his instructors. Basic training was three to four months and the emphasis was on how to shoot and, more importantly, how to not get shot. Ingo breezed through.

  After basic, soldiers were posted to their particular units. Paratroopers, snipers, Special Forces, artillery, etc. Ingo was assigned to artillery. The big guns.

  He told me most days he served in the army, he used a weapon of one sort or another. Not for practice, for real. Less than six months in, Ingo shot and killed an enemy soldier. Still just eighteen, Ingo had taken a life for the first time.

  It wouldn’t be the last.

  “If you didn’t kill them, they’d kill you or your friends. That’s just the way it was,” he’d said.

  After eleven long months in the military, a new government came into power and the Rhodesian Army was disbanded.

  Ingo went home, and then to college in South Africa. He’d been shot at for the better part of a year, but now he got to be a kid again. He assimilated to college life after being forced to do terrible things in war.

  After graduation, he moved to London for a job, and spent ten years in the United Kingdom before he moved to the U.S. and started his own medical device company.

  When I initially contemplated getting a gun, I was reluctant to mention it to Ingo. But who better to go to for help? So the next time we got together, I expressed my concern about the seeming rise in gun violence around the country. The school shootings. The workplace shootings. The public shootings.

  In 2014, there were hundreds of mass shootings in the U.S. alone.

  And now it had happened just a few miles from my home, at a place I’d been to with my family countless times.

  What if I was caught in a situation like that?

  What would I do?

  How would I protect my family?

  As a husband and a father, it was my job to protect them. An antiquated notion perhaps, but that’s how I felt.

  He nodded as I spoke. I knew if anyone would understand, it would be him.

  I told him I wanted to get a gun, and he laughed. After all, how many liberal Jewish doctors living in Boca owned a gun?

  The number had to be pretty low.

  But instead of trying to talk me out of it or telling me I was being paranoid, Ingo simply asked, “Are you prepared to kill someone?”

  The question caught me off guard. I’d never really thought about it.

  “Because if you aren’t,” he went on, “don’t buy a gun.”

  “I don’t know,” I replied.

  How do you answer a question like that? I thought.

  “Well, you’d better figure it out,” he said. “If you draw your weapon, and you’re not willing to use it, you just might get killed with your own gun. Protecting your family is the byproduct, but you need to be willing to take a life in order to do it. Without hesitation.”

  I thought about that for a while.

  I’d spent nearly twenty years taking care of people. Helping them see better, protecting their eye health, offering advice on wellness and nutrition. Could I really see myself shooting someone? Killing someone?

  I started to doubt it, to question my ability to take a life.

  But then I thought about my family. How much I loved them, how I would do anything for them. And how powerless I would feel if I was unable to protect them when they needed me most.

  The answer didn’t come easily, but once it did, I was absolute in my conviction.

  “To protect my family, yes. I would do anything.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Let’s get started.”

  Chapter 5

  The Sig Sauer P229 was the pistol once used by countless police agencies, several branches of the military, British intelligence, as well as the U.S. Secret Service.

  And Ingo.

  He liked the Sig because of its double-action/single-action configuration. This meant there was no active safety on the pistol, but it took a strong effort to pull the trigger the first time.

  The double-action: The hammer goes back then goes forward. After the first shot, the hammer stays back, and it’s much easier to pull the trigger the second time—the single-action. Basically, there’s little to no risk of shooting yourself
in the leg, and the gun is ready to fire when needed. No fumbling with a safety in the event you need it quickly.

  It was hard to argue with his logic, and I decided double-action/single-action was the way to go. Over the next several weeks, Ingo taught me everything about his P229. He taught me the proper grip, the correct stance, how to find the sight picture, and how to press the trigger without jerking the gun. He taught me about muzzle discipline, practice regimens, and the different types of ammo. He made sure I knew exactly how a gun worked, how it felt to shoot, and how to use it safely.

  Before I made any decisions, and certainly before I bought anything, Ingo suggested I try on a number of different pistols to see which one fit. He suggested I spend the next few weeks shooting all the double-action/single-action pistols I could find.

  I did just that.

  Ingo was there to let me know what he liked and didn’t like about each. And while he loved and recommended his Sig P229, I found it too big and too heavy. With its metal frame, steel slide, and fifteen-round steel magazine, I couldn’t imagine carrying it around. I wanted something I could have with me at all times, but something that wouldn’t weigh my pants down in the process.

  Then I discovered the H&K P30SK. It was smaller (SK stood for subcompact), lighter (it had a polymer frame, not metal), and only held ten rounds in the magazine. I rented one and spent an hour with it on the range. Ingo explained the features of it and instructed me as I shot it.

  This was the one, I was sure of it. Compared to the other pistols I’d fired, it felt natural in my hands. The weight, the balance, the accuracy… I was sold.

  As I was filling out the necessary paperwork, Ingo asked me the question I had been hoping to avoid.

  “What is Sara gonna say about this?”

  Sara was not a fan of guns. That was putting it mildly. She hated them. She attributed much of the violence in the world to guns and often railed at how easy it was to get one. But I had two things going for me that I was counting on for all future arguments.

  One, her father had a gun in the house while she was growing up. Still did.

  And two, I was doing this for her. For them. It wasn’t for fun or for sport. It wasn’t because it was cool or popular. It was to protect them if the day ever came where our lives were in danger.

  If I could make her understand that, she’d get on board.

  I hoped.

  Once all the paperwork was complete, the waiting began. Florida had a mandatory three-day waiting period for handguns. Some counties, it’s as many as five.

  During that time, they ran a background check to make sure I wasn’t a psycho with a history of violence or a criminal record.

  It was also sometimes referred to as a “cooling down” period, for anyone thinking about buying a gun out of anger, ready to do something stupid.

  When the time came to pick up my new purchase from the gun shop, I was both excited and nervous.

  “Now you just need to learn how to use it,” Ingo said.

  And learn I did.

  Ingo brought me to the range twice a week for the next few weeks, showing me everything I needed to know. He re-trained me on grip, stance, sight picture, and trigger press. After we left the range, we went back to his house and he taught me how to disassemble and clean my weapon. He stressed the importance of keeping it clean, and told me to look at my pistol the same way I would scuba gear. “If it fails you, you’re dead.”

  Once he felt like I had a good grasp on things, he set me loose and I was on my own. I continued to visit the range at least once a week, often twice. But it wasn’t enough. I still wasn’t comfortable. I was afraid to carry it with me, and that was not a good feeling. I needed more.

  I started taking courses taught by licensed professionals. Instructors who trained the police, and were former cops or military themselves. I started with beginner handgun courses, then worked my way up to tactical pistol courses, and even real-life simulation courses.

  I learned how to shoot from the hip, literally, in the event of a close quarter confrontation, then from the high-inside ready position with elbows bent and the pistol close to my chest, and then fully punched out with arms extended, elbows locked, in an aggressive stance.

  In the simulations, I learned how to evaluate a real threat from a bogus one, how to avoid escalating a situation into a deadly one, and how to respond with deadly force when the simulation called for it.

  My skills improved as time went on and I became more and more comfortable with my weapon. I continued to practice and meet with Ingo whenever our schedules would permit. I committed to learn whatever I could that would make me a more responsible gun owner and prepare me in the event I ever needed to draw my weapon.

  I winced at the thought and prayed that day would never come.

  Chapter 6

  The summer flew by and before I knew it, Sara and the boys were home from camp. I’d visited for a few days over Parents’ Weekend, but it came and went in a flash. Two days was not enough, but as Sara reminded me, I hated being away from the office for long. Even though the house was about to get a lot noisier, I was thrilled to have them back.

  Mandy would be too.

  The boys mobbed me at the airport and gave me such powerful hugs they nearly knocked me over. Jordan, now fourteen, was already approaching six feet tall and was all muscle. His sole objective at this moment in his life was to be taller than me. I was six-three, but he was catching up fast.

  Brock, twelve, was smaller than most of his friends, and a good nine inches shorter than his big brother— he was eager to catch up. But what he lacked in height, he made up for with incredible athleticism and a razor-sharp wit.

  They both talked a big game, as teenage boys tend to do, but they were softies at heart. Especially for their dad, who they’d barely seen for the last two months. Sara helped extricate me from the mongrels and gave me a hearty hug of her own. We kissed and walked hand-in-hand as we headed for the car. The boys were in charge of the bags.

  We went straight from the airport to a celebratory dinner at their favorite restaurant. For the next two hours, I was regaled with stories from all three of them about friends they’d made, trips they went on, adventures they’d had, pranks they’d pulled (mostly the boys), and food they ate. Sara and Jordan lived for food, so that was an important topic of conversation.

  We laughed until we couldn’t laugh anymore, and I beamed at how happy my boys were. Sara was just happy to be home. While the boys had seven weeks of fun, she worked hard to make that happen. She enjoyed her time there but it wasn’t easy, and she was ready for a break.

  When we got back to the house, Mandy attacked the three of them. Each was treated to a tongue bath, the kind only an overexcited puppy can deliver. She barked with glee and slobbered all over them. She chirped and squeaked, sounding more like a bird than a dog, and raced around the house like a lunatic.

  The family was back together.

  The boys were sent to unpack and shower, and Sara headed off to do the same. I dreaded spoiling the great night we just had, but I had to tell her. I hated having a secret from her, and I just wanted to get it over with. I’d kept it from her all summer and decided to tell her that night. It was a risk, because I knew she would be mad. But, more importantly, I was planning some welcome-home sex and I was about to put that plan in serious jeopardy.

  I followed her into our bedroom, not quite sure what I was going to say. I’d practiced a number of versions over the past several weeks, and figured I’d go with the one that felt right in the moment. In the end, I just came out and said it.

  “So, I, umm, bought a gun…”

  “Excuse me?” she said, glaring at me.

  “Okay,” I said, holding up my hands, “before you get mad, at least let me tell you why. Hear me out, okay?”

  Sara dropped the clothes she’d been transferring from
the suitcase onto the bed and folded her arms. “I’m listening.”

  I wanted to tell her alone, not in front of the boys. They didn’t need to know just yet. I explained my fears and my feelings, much like I did with Ingo. That the world around us was changing. That terror was getting closer every day. That not being able to protect them terrified me.

  She took it about as expected. She was pissed. While she understood my rationale and acknowledged my feelings as a husband and father, she was angry for several reasons:

  That I did it behind her back.

  That I did it without speaking with her first.

  And that I did it in spite of knowing all too well how she felt about guns.

  This was going to take some time. And, as I feared, there would be no welcome-home sex.

  Over the next few months, society did most of the convincing for me. There were a number of gun-related incidents, public shootings, and terrorist attacks that began to push Sara closer to my side of the argument. She wouldn’t say it out loud, but I suspected she was starting to think I had made the right decision.

  I reassured her that I never wanted the day to come where I would be forced to use it, but just having it made me feel better.

  As I grew more and more comfortable with it, I carried it with me everywhere I went. I had obtained a Concealed Carry Permit through the proper channels and was legally permitted to carry my pistol with me at all times.

  After a number of months had gone by and Sara had grown slightly more comfortable with the idea, we decided to tell the boys. Better to do it in a controlled environment than for one of them to put their arm around me at the mall and say, “What’s that?”

  I explained to them the what and why, that I never ever wanted to use it, but that I felt it was important to have should the need arise. They were both old enough and smart enough to understand my reasoning.

  One day I would teach them how to use it, but not for a while. Sara had barely thawed to the idea of me having it, and I wasn’t going to push it by suggesting the boys handle the gun.