3:53 P.M.
The shots continue.
Miranda’s mind is filled with a jumble of panicked thoughts. Her body is frozen as she tries to take it all in. People falling. Some are hurt. Some dead. Dozens running. Tripping over chairs in panic. Screaming. Shouting. Stampeding away as quickly as they can.
The rich girl pushes back her chair so fast, it falls over. She runs around the table to her mom, tries to catch her as she slides off her seat. The older woman’s chest is now covered with blood, red and shiny as freshly spilled paint.
Is she dead? Miranda can’t believe it, despite how boneless the woman now looks.
The barista drops her paper cup—just lets it splash on the floor—and flees into the back of the coffee shop. Where’s Miranda supposed to go? What’s she supposed to do?
Is she going to get shot? Is she going to die?
She tries to climb over the high counter. But the front is a rounded glass display case for pastries and cookies. Her feet can’t find purchase. She slides back down to the floor.
POP, POP, POP.
A bullet shatters the glass of the display case next to her chest.
Before the next one finds her, Miranda darts away.
She and the other people in the food court are fish in a barrel, the way her dad likes to say, to note how easy something is. Like shooting fish in a barrel.
Miranda feels for those poor fish now, swimming in frantic circles with no way to escape.