Paul had a gun. It wasn’t elegant or personalized in any way. Even for its small size it was dense and lay heavily against his palm as if to reinforce the simple fact that it was a weapon and must be taken seriously.

The smooth cool exterior looked delicate but Paul knew how well looks could be deceiving. He didn’t look like someone who would carry a gun, for example. Scrawny, white, with curly brown hair, Paul had been called a Jew (he wasn’t), and a geek (he was). Now that he was at college, people didn’t really bully him any more. It wasn’t like the movies with frat boys rampaging about. Everyone was too busy, too preoccupied with themselves. Why then did he have a gun now?

Outside his room, the floor creaked, ending his reverie. Paul thrust the gun inside his pillow case and flipped the whole thing over so that no suspicious looking bulges could be seen. He was thankful that the creaky hallway acted as a kind of early warning detection system and gave him time to hide it before his roommate came home.