Over dinner I asked my son, a 14-year-old freshman at a Dallas ISD high school, if he'd heard about what happened in Parkland, Fla., earlier in the day: 17 dead; more than a dozen others wounded. He looked down at his plate, shrugged, said yes. He's on Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat. The kid is informed. Too informed. He knows.

I asked him what I ask every time kids his age are gunned down in hallways and classrooms. Are you scared? How often do you think about it? Do you know what you would do if someone opened fire in your school?

He rolled his eyes and said, no, he's not scared. I asked why not.

"Because it could happen anywhere in this country," he said. Because it does. Anywhere. Everywhere.

He didn't want to talk about it. I didn't push. Just following our rabbi's advice dispensed this week in an email titled "Talking to Your Children About Tragedy." It said, in part, to "listen to your child." And, "Take your time. Thoughts and reactions can come out quickly for some and slowly for others. Check in with your child regularly and pay attention for the signs that he or she is ready to talk."

On Thursday, the same day five local students had been arrested for bringing guns to school or threatening their campuses, he wanted to talk. Mostly, about how useless it was to talk.

"Us talking about this won't change anything," he said. "It doesn't make it less likely for someone to buy a gun who shouldn't have one. It doesn't make it any less likely that it will happen at my school." He shrugged, then buried his head in his phone, resigned, defeated. "I am not in a position to make laws to prevent it. I am not in a position to do anything."

It's how I feel all the time when stories about mass shootings choke my Twitter feed — helpless, hopeless. Useless.

"Everyone feels helpless," said state Rep. Rafael Anchia. That includes Anchia. He's tried for years to pass laws regulating who can buy guns in the state and where they can carry them. As we lamented together after 26 were slain in Sutherland Springs last fall, his modest, sensible proposals always wind up in tatters. Which doesn't stop Anchia from trying again.

Anchia has two daughters a little younger than my son. They, too, "are shook up" each time they hear of children being slaughtered in schools that look like their school, in churches that look like their church.

"And what I have explained to them is that grown-ups are failing them," Anchia said. "And until grown-ups take responsibility for this and do something about it, it will continue to happen."

Others I talked to — the mayor, the DISD's chief of police — said kids can do something. You know — see something, say something when a classmate's acting strange. Don't be afraid to tell a counselor. Don't be afraid to tell the campus cop about the kid making threats on YouTube.

"I would challenge a student who says there's nothing they can do," said Craig Miller, DISD's chief who, when he was a Dallas top cop, worked some 750 homicides. "Kids are the difference-makers."

But you saw what good that did in Florida. The FBI got a tip weeks ago that Nikolas Cruz was buying guns and threatening to shoot up a campus — and did nothing.

My son watched survivors of the Parkland shooting go on TV and take to Twitter to demand action from policymakers. He was particularly struck by the words of David Hogg, who said, "We're children. You guys are the adults. You need to take some action." He said politicians should listen to Hogg, the kids who lived through the gunfire. But, he said, they won't. Because they never do.

Mayor Mike Rawlings, a politician, said Friday he's been calling and mailing letters to the Texas delegation, made up of other politicians, asking them to bring together gun advocates and gun-control advocates and academics so they could hash out some middle ground that makes us a little safer.

"Then," Rawlings said, "let the politicians weigh in."

I told him we all know where that will lead. Nowhere. But, he said, at least it's something.

Flowers and crosses line a fence near the school on a makeshift memorial for the victims of the Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School shooting in Parkland, Fla., on Feb. 14. (Rhona Wise / Agence France-Presse)

"Because we need to do something," the mayor said. "I'll go for anything now. Do something. I just want to see some action, as opposed to everyone being sorry all the time."

On Thursday, my son said, one of his baseball coaches said, yes, it could happen at their school, too. See something, say something. I guess? Last thing the boy said Thursday night was, "You writing this piece won't change anything."

He smiled, gave me a hug and a kiss, and went to bed.

Friday morning, a little after 9:30, he texted me that there'd been a shooting threat at his North Dallas school — at least, according to a Snapchat post that began making the rounds the night before. He said there were a handful of DISD cops outside.

"I'm freaking out," he texted.

I reached Miller, who said it was nothing — "just extra patrol." I mentioned the Snapchat post. He said only that it was "taken care of yesterday." Later, he would tell me, the post initially appeared Monday, was reported by some students, and that it was recirculated Wednesday after the shooting in Florida. DISD cops found out about it from Dallas police.

DISD spokeswoman Robyn Harris texted, too. Her note was reassuring, cryptic: "I can share more later," she wrote. "But your son's campus is safe. No shooting. No weapon. No incident today."

So that's it, I guess. No incident today. No guarantees about tomorrow.