People with dogs are all out walking them at this hour. And joggers. I get into the groove of nodding and saying “good morning.” Sometimes I lean over and scratch the ears of a dog as it goes by. It is a hopeful, happy morning for everyone else, I can see that. People are enjoying the season, the weather, the hour.

But as I get closer to the school, my stomach starts to tighten. My mouth has gone dry, and I’m taking deep breaths. The only thing this school has ever made me feel is different. Weird. A freak. I tried to fit in, and then I tried to change that place, and neither worked. And so, I’ll do things my way. I am an artist. A maker. I’m not like anyone else. I am different.

My shoulders square, my chin high, I head behind the school to the Makers’ Space door. I take a big breath and press the card against the reader and set it all in motion.

Everything is dark and quiet. No one’s here at this hour. I flick the light switch and the room hums to life, and I can’t help but smile. I love this place; I have missed it.

Be sure to make plans, outlines, prototypes, Pete says sometimes, when he comes in here to check out what people are up to. And I have; I have made plans. Up late last night working out exactly what I needed to do, taking measurements, doing math, drawing all kinds of sketches. I am ready. I am emboldened.

I could easily get my hands on a gun, a real one. I’ve heard Reg brag enough times about how people would have to take his out of his cold dead hands to know that there is probably one in my house now. It’s probably not even well hidden. He probably stuck it in what used to be dad’s bedside table drawer. But I don’t want that.

I sit at one of the tables and run my palms over the smooth wooden surface. I open my bag, rooting around my provisions for the day, and pull out my materials and my laptop. The window is open to my DIY project plans, and I send a silent prayer of thanks up to the goddess of vengeance. Sure, she is worshipped by disgruntled boys and men, because it’s always boys and men who do this: make homemade peacemakers and deliverers of justice out of a few pipes, some wood, 3-D printing, and the power of their convictions. They are the ones who post videos and blogs, blueprints, terrible websites and forums and Reddit posts with how-tos about this stuff. The great unloved, the mass of ignored. They would want nothing to do with me, a girl.

But the fire, the power and passion behind revenge and pain, would surely be a woman.