Walking through D.C.’s Union Station late last night, I caught myself wondering absentmindedly where the best place to leap might be if someone started shooting.
Like most of us, I had been mourning the tragedy in Orlando, where the deadliest mass shooting in American history took place in a gay club early Sunday. Thinking of the horror experienced inside the club, I was ashamed to find myself pondering a hypothetical question of self-preservation.
