Gunfire echoes in my head long after the echoes die in the halls. That single, sharp sound. My mind can’t wrap around it. Maybe a balloon had popped. But my body knows better, anchoring my feet to the ground. Waiting for… something.

  I’ve heard gunfire before in my mom’s neighborhood. It wasn’t even uncommon. I’d grown used to checking if it was close or far away. But I haven’t needed to practice in years, and that noise doesn’t belong here.

  Is a teacher playing a movie? Yeah, that has to be it.

  But then, why don’t I hear anything else? Action scenes aren’t built from a single shot.

  Another shot splits the air, accompanied by voices too close and full bodied to come from a TV speaker. They scream, high-pitched, frantic and shaking against every cheap tile and brick in the hall.

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  And I run. It’s coming from the main gym area, getting quieter as my shoes loudly slap against the floor.

  Then screams voices grow closer and the lights go out, the intercom blasting, “All students and faculty, please follow lockdown procedures. All students and faculty, please follow lockdown procedures.”

  Latches and locks snap shut around me. Click. Click. Click.

  It’s like I’m running through a field of closing traps. I know I was supposed to run into the nearest class, barricade with the teacher, and clear the hall. But something in my gut tells me to keep running from the screams and boys' voices coming ever closer, laughing and high-fiving.

  They’ll catch me soon. I need to get out of sight. I slide into the nearest entrance, the janitor’s closet, unlocked as always. His cleaning cart blocks the entrance and I tip it over in my haste. The bottles all tumble to the floor and a cap snaps off. A thick cleaning liquid glug glugs into the hall.

  The thumps of the boys’ shoes halt. “Did you hear that?”