She’s like a stick-figure drawing of someone holding a gun, all sharp angles and straight lines, her arms extended from her body in a perfect triangle. It’s the amateur stance of someone who learned her gun skills from comic books and cartoons, who’s never held a gun, never even had an interest in a toy one.

My chest swells with terror, and I shift to the other side of the chair. “Beatrix, sweetie, give me the gun.”

She shakes her head, hard and sharp, a rapid back-and-forth that shivers her curls. “I mean it, mister. Back up.” Her muscles are taut, her finger twitching where it’s bent over the trigger.

Sebastian takes a tiny backward step. “Be careful with that thing. This isn’t some plaything, you know, that gun is deadly. One wrong move and you could shoot yourself in the foot or worse. What if you shoot your mama?”

“I’m not aiming at my mom. I’m aiming at you.”

“Come on, kid. You really don’t want to do this.”

“Yes, I do. I really, really want to shoot you.” Beatrix’s voice breaks on the word shoot, and she thrusts the gun for emphasis. “Now move back. I mean it. Go!”

Sebastian takes another ministep. “So that’s it, then, you’re going to shoot me. Better make it good. Better not miss.”

Beatrix closes one eye. Her muscles never so much as quiver when she holds the violin, but now her aim is all over the place. She’s close enough, though, that even a wide shot could be deadly. The femur, a collarbone, a direct hit to the head.

I hold out a trembling hand. “Beatrix, I mean it. Give me the gun.”

Another shake of the head. “Not until he moves back. He’s still too close. Move more.”

“Or maybe you should just wait until the cops get here. Let them handle things.” Sebastian tips his head to the window, to the sound of sirens. The wailing feels like a hallucination, like if I cover my ears they’ll disappear, fading away into silence. I picture police cars hurtling through the streets behind our house, colorful lights cutting through the dusk and rain like swirling lanterns. In another few minutes, they’ll be squealing up the drive.

“Stop talking. And move back more.” Beatrix enunciates each word slowly, deliberately. “Please don’t make me say it again.”

It’s a phrase I say to the kids often, and in exactly that same tone, and my words coming out of my daughter’s mouth wrap around my heart and squeeze. It never works on them, either.

Sebastian’s soles stay planted to the floor.

I slide onto my knees on the carpet. I’m afraid any sudden movement will set Beatrix off. Slowly, steadily, I stretch my hand farther.

“He’s right, baby. You’re so brave, but let me handle this, okay? Give Mommy the gun.”