> Guns in the Doctor's Office

Took the kid in for a checkup. Standard pediatric circus. Waiting room smells like hand sanitizer and crushed dreams. Nurse weighs him, sticks the cold stethoscope on his chest, asks the usual bullshyt about screen time and vegetables.

Then the doctor walks in. Soft hands. Soft voice. Clipboard like it's a fuqing warrant.

"Do you have guns in your home?"

No hello. No "how are we doing today." Straight to the ATF questionnaire. Like the kid's ear infection is somehow connected to my safe.

I looked him dead in the eye.

"Sir, I have guns in your office."

He blinked. Did that little throat-clear thing soft men do when the script fails.

"Excuse me?"

"Right now. On me. In your exam room. With the cartoon dinosaurs on the wall and the jar of lollipops that expired in 2019. I have guns in your office."

Silence. The kind that makes the fluorescent lights louder.

He tried to recover. Something about "standard screening" and "safety" and "we just want to make sure." I let him talk. Watched him sweat through the button-up. Kid sitting there swinging his legs, completely unbothered, already planning how many stickers he was going to demand for surviving this.

I told him the truth without raising my voice. Locked safe. Separate from ammo. Kids know the rules. They've been to the range. They understand a firearm is a tool, not a toy, not a personality, not a fuqing Instagram prop. Same way they understand the stove burns and the car can kill you if you play in the street.

He wrote something down anyway. Probably "father refuses to disarm for the greater good" or "potential risk factor: owns hardware and a spine."

I paid the copay, took the lollipop for the kid, and left.

Whole drive home I kept replaying it. These people ask about guns like they're asking about lead paint or mold. Like the presence of a rifle in a locked box is the same category of hazard as leaving bleach under the sink. Never once ask if the dad has a plan. Never ask if the house has a dog that would actually bite an intruder. Never ask if the neighborhood is turning into a free-for-all because half the city council thinks soft-on-crime is a personality.

Just the guns. Always the guns.

Next time I'm bringing the range bag and asking if he wants to see the zero on the red dot before we discuss the kid's BMI.