The reporter wrote this column first. This post’s heading is from her follow-up article.

How easily it could be my family, even me — even you

Four years ago, we moved to a small town of 5,000 and rejoiced that we never had to lock our doors. A few weeks ago, we moved back to the city and rejoiced that we were just a short stroll away from several great restaurants.

Then came Monday night. Just two days into rejoicing we were startled back to reality when two men, both federal prosecutors, were shot walking up the same hill from the same restaurant area by the same houses we pass nearly every night. One man died, the other was wounded.

All I can think is: This is not supposed to happen in my neighborhood. This is a “nice” neighborhood, full of students and the sort of people who prefer old houses, big trees and sidewalks. Everyone greets neighbors, knows everyone’s dogs’ and children’s names, gathers for neighborhood meetings.

But it did happen. Which is to say, no one is free anymore from fear and violence and the increasing randomness of crime. The two men who were shot were visitors to our town, both assistant U.S. attorneys from Illinois attending a seminar at the National Advocacy Center, a U.S. Justice Department training facility and a bright new addition to the University of South Carolina campus in Columbia.

The two prosecutors had walked from the center, just a couple of blocks from our house, down the hill to have dinner in a popular bar and restaurant section of town. On their way home shortly before 10 p.m., they suddenly heard footsteps running behind them and voices demanding that they lie face down. Instead, they ran.

Michael C. Messer, a 49-year-old father of three from Morton Grove, Ill., took a bullet in the leg and the back, and died shortly thereafter. Richard Ferguson made it back to the Advocacy Center with a bullet in his arm.

Four teens, ages 16-18, have been arrested and charged with the fatal shooting. They didn’t stop with the killings that night but continued on a rampage of armed robbery for several more hours. Their capture the next day was bizarrely serendipitous.

The local sheriff was chasing a bank robber when his car accidentally hit a Volvo. Guess whose it was? The car belonged to the mother of one of the shooters. When the mother brought her son to the sheriff’s department to file an accident report, deputies recognized the car and the young man’s name as having been associated with the crime spree. Talk about luck.

Not so lucky are the rest of us who now must learn to live differently. The odds of another shooting so close to home are probably remote, I tell myself. But are they?

How easily it could have been my family. My husband, who had walked our dogs along that exact path not 15 minutes earlier. Or my son, who frequently meets friends at a nearby coffee bar. Or, yes, even me, as I might have visited the friends in front of whose house Messer collapsed, mortally wounded.

The range of emotions I have felt these past few days has been varied, but one stands above the rest. Anger. I’m angry that I have to be afraid, that we now must drive the three blocks to our favorite restaurant, that we must walk our dogs before dark. I’m furious that I have to remind my son to check the shadows before he gets out of his car. And remember to do the same myself.

All because four teenage thugs valued the prospect of a few bucks over the life of another. I feel like Howard Beale in the movie Network. I want to stick my head out the window and shout: “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore.” But what’s the use?

We have to take it, because that’s the way it is.

Guns in wrong hands are a problem; guns in right hands aren’t

Here I am going out to dinner. I grab my purse, keys, cell phone, and am half out the door when I realize — dang — forgot my pistol. What am I thinking?

That’s precisely the question posed by a number of readers responding to an earlier column about two men who were shot recently in my neighborhood. I said I was angry that I no longer feel safe walking to my favorite restaurant.

In fact, the next night we did drive the few blocks to dinner, but mainly because we wanted to get home in time for the Condit-Chung standoff. I should have taped it for future bouts of insomnia. Hello, Gary; goodbye Ambien.

But back to the OK Corral. I admit that my column ended on a wimpy note. I more or less conceded that fear has become a part of our lives, and there’s nothing we can do about it. I couldn’t think of anything, anyway, other than to live more cautiously, to lock my doors, check shadows, the usual drill.

What I hadn’t considered is carrying a concealed weapon, the only plausible answer, according to many who took time to write.

“Shoot back!” said one. “Better yet, shoot first; shoot fast. Use formidable firepower; don’t flinch!”

“Buck up,” said another. “Don’t take it.”

I may be a limp-wristed writer on certain overcast days, but I’m no gun-sissy.

My father collected all types and taught his kids to shoot. “If you point a gun at someone,” he always said, “aim to kill.” So I’m not afraid of guns and don’t belong to the group of Americans who believe guns, rather than people, kill. Guns in the wrong hands are a problem; guns in the right hands aren’t.

Including handguns. Years ago, I interviewed various murderers, rapists and their victims for a series on gun violence. One would-be victim of rape did carry a small pistol in her purse. When her attacker pinned her against the wall, the woman reached inside her purse, pulled out her pearl-handled derringer and stuck it into the man’s side. He died that night, and she never needed a Condit video to fall asleep.

I’d like to think I’d have such presence of mind under similar circumstances. I’d rather think that by living more carefully, I’d never have to worry about being raped or shot down in the streets.

On the other hand, chances are about 100 percent that the two federal prosecutors who were shot around the corner from my house never imagined that four teenage boys would shoot them either. One of the men died from a bullet in the back as he fled. The other was wounded and escaped.

According to my letter writers, the attorneys might still be alive if they’d been carrying a concealed weapon, which is permitted in South Carolina where this happened, but not in Illinois, where the two victims were from. Illinois is one of seven states that forbids concealed weapons.

Was there time for the two men to wheel around, whip out their pistols and fight back? Would they both have survived? Would they have shot one or two of the boys only to be finished off by the other two? By my count, that would make four dead instead of one, and that’s with a lot of “ifs.”

I’m almost certain that in the same situation, I wouldn’t have been able to pull out a pistol in time to save myself. As a rule, I can’t even get to my cell phone in time to answer it, or find my keys without a great deal of patience from companions.

That said, I may change my mind some day. If I do, I’ll be glad I live in a state where at least I’m allowed to defend myself.

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