I had never imagined my own murder until one morning in January at the small church my husband and I attend in northern Alabama.
I am sitting in the back pew in the church the Sunday after Epiphany. A man with a military-style haircut opens the front door. The service is almost over. He smiles at me over his face mask as he quietly closes the door. I smile back with my eyes. He whispers, “Can I sit here?” nodding to the empty space beside me. I nod back.
Then I see the gun on his hip and my eyes widen. My heart jump-starts, my knees lock, my body goes cold. He is clothed in olive green, and I can’t tell if he is military or paramilitary, a Proud Boy or a plainclothes cop. Is he going to murder us all?
