excerpt from Smoking Guns

Crepe myrtles are everywhere in hot July in North Carolina. Hardy and showy, they line railroad tracks and freeways and stand alone on residential lots, bearing flowers of searing ruby red, Pepto-Bismol pink, or dirty-cotton white. I drove past hundreds of them while worrying one of those guns in my trunk might go off, killing a small child in a neighboring minivan.

I tried not to think about all the other guns in the other vehicles on the highway with me. Handguns and long guns, in trunks and glove compartments and under seats and stuffed into diaper bags, belonging to owners who are sure their guns are loaded.