October 2002

That October when a madman was picking off random people
No one saw anything coming, until, “Pop!” Another one dead.
We were all on edge, the old, the young, the hip, the square - any of us targets.
Feeling exposed under the suburban sky, I would serpentine my way home from the Metro.
Harder to shoot you if you don’t walk a straight line.
A bizarre commute - heart pounding, lungs working like bellows, careening across the sidewalk. Whatever you do, get home in one piece.