Wednesday, March 14th was the one-month anniversary of the deadly Parkland school shooting. It was coined by many as National Walkout Day, and many high schoolers left their classes in honor of the students killed in the shooting. Our school gathered outside that morning, standing in front of the gate of our school. Locked arm in arm, we were silent for seventeen minutes, one minute for every life lost. We watched the cars pass by, their drivers craning their heads in our direction or honking in solidarity. After the seventeen minutes had passed, we formed a circle of linked hands. The names of those killed in the shooting were read out as well as their ages. 14, 14, 15, 14, 17. each number was a punch to the gut. We disbanded, trudging back to class as the sun shone down. I remember feeling detached and angry. I wanted to yell. Instead, I talked to my classmates, the ones who had organized the walkout. They voiced their feelings, how they felt during the minutes by the fence. They discussed the tears they’d shed in silence while the names were being read out. We talked about the cold and how our hands shook in the shade of oak trees. Hugs were exchanged and faint smiles were produced while we talked about gun control. Exclamations and exasperated sighs made up our conversation. We asked questions that had already been asked so many times before. But we repeated them because we couldn’t understand why no one had answered them yet. We were outraged and annoyed. We still feel that way. We walk out of school and write articles demanding answers because we need to know when we might be safe again. We have to keep asking questions and being angry because we need to know: when will enough be enough?