Closing the trunk, she went to the passenger door and opened the glove compartment, removing the holstered revolver from within. The gun was heavy now, heavier than it had ever seemed before, but it was a comforting weight. I am not going to be a victim again. Slipping the revolver into her other coat pocket, she walked to the porch and climbed the steps, rolling the suitcase behind her.
Well, owning and using a gun is as much part of the Americana fabric as nothing else.
