I always understood why the Second Amendment was constitutionally protected. What I never really understood was why people called it a natural right. Then I moved from New York to Florida. I didn’t own a gun yet. One afternoon I was loading things into the trunk of my car outside a HomeGoods when a man approached me. “Excuse me.” He must have thought he’d startled me, because he immediately added, “Don’t worry. I’m not going to get close.” I laughed. “I’m a New Yorker. I’m used to close. How can I help you?” He started telling me that he needed money for gas. At some point while he was talking, I got into my car. And sitting there, with the conversation still unfolding, I suddenly realized something: He didn’t know whether I had a gun. Not somewhere at home. Not hypothetically. For all he knew, I could have had one right there in the car, tucked under the steering wheel or within reach. I didn’t. But he couldn’t know that. Schrödinger’s gun. And in that instant, before I even knew whether his story was true, something changed in the space between us. I thought about New York. I thought about my friend who had been murdered in his own apartment during a burglary gone wrong. Would those men have gone into his apartment if they had believed he might be armed? I don’t know. I thought about the time I was mugged at gunpoint, with a gun pressed against my temple. Would that man have approached me with the same confidence if he had believed there was even a possibility that I could defend myself? I don’t know that either. But sitting there in that Florida parking lot, listening to this stranger talk, I suddenly understood deterrence in a way I never had before. Not as military theory. Not as constitutional law. As something intimate. My body. My life. The few feet between one person and another. For years I had thought about guns primarily as objects: who had one, who shouldn’t have one, what laws should govern them. Suddenly I understood the question from the other direction. What changes when another person cannot simply assume that I am defenseless? I felt taller. Not because I had a gun. I didn’t. But because, for the first time, I understood that someone approaching me could not automatically assume that being physically stronger meant having power over me. There was uncertainty. There was a boundary around my body that had to be taken seriously. Then his story began to fall apart. I told him I didn’t have cash, but offered to help another way. I could put some gas in his car. He took off. So apparently, yes, it was a scam. But by then I had already understood something much larger than the scam. The phrase natural right finally made sense to me. The Constitution had not given me ownership of my body. It had not given me my life. It had not invented my right to protect either one. Those things came first. What I understood that afternoon was the thing underneath them. I had once been completely helpless while another human being held a gun against my temple. Years later, without a gun in my possession at all, I understood what it meant for the person approaching me not to know whether I was helpless. That uncertainty changed the space between us. And that was the moment I finally understood the natural right behind the Second Amendment: My life is mine, and the right to defend it has to exist before anyone gives me permission to do so.