On a sunlit chilly afternoon last week, the fire department came to visit. This is an annual event, and one that second graders greet with enthusiasm. They are always enthralled by the equipment and excited to share what they already know about fire safety. They also anticipate being able to clamber in and out of the fire truck and ambulance and maybe even try on a helmet. What’s not to love?

After touring the ambulance, we sat on the pavement in front of the fire truck, listening to the fireman talk. Suddenly, a radio squawked to life. In between static, we could hear blips of the incoming transmission, including something about “medical call” and “a four year old.” Everyone started shuffling and whispering, eyes wide, watching the professionals confer and click into gear. Within moments the ambulance crew had quickly departed in response, and the fireman had resumed his presentation. After a few more murmurs of “What’s going on?” and “Did you hear that?”, the kids settled back in to listen.

Except for one of them.

J. was slouched within his hooded sweatshirt, and I could see that he was still talking to his neighboring classmates, though they were mostly ignoring him, intent on answering the fireman’s questions about “Stop, Drop, and Roll!” J’s a big kid who vacillates between maintaining a tough guy veneer (second grade swagger?) and indulging his penchant for silliness. He can struggle with meeting expectations. I went over to check in.

“What’s up, J.?” I asked him.

“They said it was a four year old,” he said.

I reassured him that it was a medical call and that the ambulance left quickly so that they could help whoever it was who needed them.

“But I’m scared,” he said.

“It’s okay,” I reiterated. “Help is on the way for them.”

“But I thought it was a shooter. Was it a shooter?” he asked in a tremulous voice.

“No, J, it isn’t a shooter,” I said, suddenly struggling to form words. “It was a family who needed help, and help is on the way. You’re okay. We’re all safe.”

“So it’s not a shooter?” he asked.

I rubbed his back and reassured him some more. “No. There’s no shooter, J. That family is getting the help they need, and we’re safe. We’re all okay.”

“Oh, okay” he murmured, “I just thought it was a shooter.”

I sat beside him for the rest of the presentation, stunned and heartbroken, wondering if my words were even true, because in our country, firearms are the leading cause of death in children and adolescents. Our national priorities are horrendously skewed, and I’m really not so sure that we’re all safe and we’re all okay.