When you live alone way out in the woods, a knock at the door at eight p.m. is unusual and cause for a wary glance. Rapid pounding and screams for help? I nearly shat myself.
Leaping from my couch, my book dropped, forgotten, I was guided purely by instinct. I grabbed my handgun from its box on my bookshelf before rushing to my front door, flicking on the porch light before unlocking the door and swinging it open. Instinct once again made me take action before I could fully comprehend what I was looking at, my feet stepping back two full paces and raising my gun to aim it unwaveringly in front of me.