Page 13 of Trapper Road

Several police officers are stationed just inside, taking down our names and the names of our kids as we enter. A big, blustery man tries to demand more information from them that nobody has. Everyone is tense, angry, terrified. Once my name is taken, I’m ushered into a large meeting room where chairs are being set up.

On instinct I scan my surroundings, checking exits and vulnerabilities. Mentally planning the fastest escape route. That’s when I notice there are no windows. They don’t want us to see, I think. In case they bring out bodies to the ambulances parked across the street.

I help set up chairs, appreciating that it at least makes me feel like I’m doing something useful. Other parents file in. No matter what their backgrounds — rich, poor, any race — they all look the same in this moment: shell-shocked, horrified, absolutely stiff with fear. Some are crying. Some are shaking their heads, demanding of nobody to know how this could happen.

As if it doesn’t happen to other people, other families, other children. As if they don’t already know this.

The room’s filling up when Sam arrives, and I launch myself toward him. He rushes to me and puts his arms around me and for a second I feel the storm lessen, not stop. He’s shaking, too. He takes a deep breath and says, “Anything from Connor?”

I shake my head. I’ve been staring at my phone, willing him to text. My fingers ache to try to reach him, but even the buzz of a silenced phone could give him away if he’s in danger. I have to endure. We have to endure.

I notice that others in the room are also staring at their phones. Some, like me, are probably hoping to hear from their kids. Others are scrolling through news reports. A father nearby is watching a livestream of a local news outlet filming the front of the school. It’s surreal to see the familiar building surrounded by so many police officers.

The sight makes me so ill that I’m forced to look away. Sam doesn’t talk. He just holds my hand and waits, tense and strong and solid, and I have never been so grateful for his steadiness. I don’t know if that comes from his military background, or some steely foundation of his character. I’ve always thought of myself — since Melvin — as strong, but this anxious, tense, emotional waiting is breaking me. I ache all over. I’m sweating, though the temperature is pleasant. I wish the woman behind me would stop crying and moaning because I can’t let myself do that, I can’t let myself believe that my children may be hurt. May even be —

My spiraling thoughts freeze as a cop steps to the front of the room. He’s wearing a uniform but he looks like a senior officer. We all fall silent as he clears his throat.

“Folks,” he says, as if he’s quieting us, but we’re already deathly silent. “My name is Lieutenant Okoye, and I’m going to keep you up to date on what we know, when we know it. Right now, we’ve confirmed that a student brought a handgun to school today and shots were fired.”

Even though most of us already knew this, hearing it confirmed causes gasps to rip through the tent, gut-punches of sound. Someone moans.

“We do not presently have any information about possible casualties, but the SWAT team is currently moving through the school in search of the shooter, and we should have a report very soon. When the threat is cleared, we’re going to send in EMT crews to see to any injuries.”

“You don’t know how many are shot?” That came from a man down front, a hard and rough tone that was a stark contrast to the businesslike tones of the policeman. “What the hell are you people doing? Get in there and get our kids out!”

There’s a rush of agreement, heads nodding, growls of approval. Lieutenant Okoye holds up both hands to quell it. It doesn’t work. More questions start coming, but they’re a confusing tangle of sound.

He raises his voice. “People! Please! Right now, we’re inside the building finding out what’s going on. But I need y’all to stay calm. I’m going to get information to you as quickly as possible. Now, we’re bringing in some water, and we should have some food here soon for you —”

“How do you think we can eat?” a woman bursts out, voice shaking.

“Ma’am, it could be a long day, and we’re going to make you as comfortable as we can. There are priests from various local churches available in the smaller conference room next door if anyone would like to seek their comfort and in addition —”

I tune him out when the man sitting next to me jolts, sucking in a breath. I look at the phone clutched in his hands. The livestream shows a set of side doors to the school flung open and kids streaming out, hands over their head.

“They’re out,” the man shouts. “They’re coming out!”

At the same time, another officer steps up to the man in front and whispers into his ear. He nods and steps away.

“Wait!” A woman calls after him. “Where are you going? What’s happening?” The room starts to dissolve into chaos.

“There’s a kid live-streaming on Facebook from inside the school,” someone else calls out. He shares the kid’s name and everyone fumbles for their phones, me included. I find the livestream and watch as a line of students scramble down a hallway, cops waving them forward. Everything is a blur of movement, making it difficult to identify specific kids.

With her purple and pink hair, Lanny would be easy to spot. But I struggle to remember what Connor wore to school that morning. How can I not know something so basic? With a start I realize that I don’t even remember if I said good-bye to him before he left.

What if I never get the chance to do so again?

I clutch my phone, staring at the livestream, hoping that I’ll see something familiar that will tell me my kids are okay. Around me I hear parents cry out in relief when they catch sight of their own kids fleeing to safety. The rest of us wait, dread nearly choking us.

Finally, after another half hour of torture, the lieutenant comes back. When he steps to the front of the room, everyone stops what they’re doing and stares.

He says, “We’ve got the students out. We’ll be bringing them in to match them up with you, and then you folks can head home.”

“How many?” someone asks. It’s a quiet voice. A frightened one.

“Ma’am, we need to focus on the kids who are going home right now, which is almost all of them. I can tell you that we have three students wounded that have been taken to the hospital, but we have no fatalities.”

There’s a rush of breath. I contribute to it. They’re alive. Tears break loose and run warm down my cheeks, and I wipe them away.

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