K.B.

We were sun-soaked, exhausted, dehydrated as we meandered toward the exit. I detoured toward the garlic bread stand, and the other three drifted along behind me.

When the first two pops rang out, I didn’t understand. I didn’t move.

There was a millisecond of silence, then bursts of high-pitched popping began again. I couldn’t hear anything but the popping. In every direction, people panicked. I remember this in slow-motion: I turned to my left to find Tanner no longer beside me. He was already 10 yards away, but running back toward me, mouth open wide, arm outstretched. He told me later he was yelling my name, but my mind was laser-focused, and I don’t remember hearing anything but pops. I thought it was fireworks for a moment; then I was counting bullets trying to guess the type of gun. As we ran, I thought about whether to kick my sandals off and run barefoot. I didn’t think about the phone in my hand or the unknown whereabouts of my friends; instead, I thought about how no shelter could protect us enough.

We hid in the shadow of a shed. I turned, saw Tommy right behind me, and felt simultaneously overwhelmed and guilty that I’d forgotten about him until that moment. Tanner wanted to keep running, but a huddle of mother and children in front of us wanted only to hide, and I didn’t have the heart to push past them. I pulled Tommy down from the fence he was scaling and told him a chain link couldn’t protect him from whizzing bullets. The popping had stopped by now, but we had no idea whether it had ended or just paused.

Tanner, Tommy, and I hugged each other, heads bowed, as Tommy prayed. “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures…” My panic couldn’t process the words. My back was to the direction of the gunfire, and all I could think about was an overwhelming dread I would be shot in the calf, the small of my back, and never see it coming. But I didn’t want to move. “He restores my soul… Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil…” Tears streamed down my face, and Tommy ended the prayer quickly. We all held each other. To this day, group hugs remind us of that frantic moment.

All around us hid confused and terrified people. No one knew what was happening or what to do. I Googled obsessively to see when it would hit the news. We called our families. I didn’t know how to say goodbye to my parents, so I didn’t – simply explained what was happening and assured them I was with friends. Neither reacted much to the revelation that I was in mortal danger. I think, like me, they couldn’t wrap their minds around it. We slowly moved toward the back of the park, away from the mounting sirens, hiding behind trees and small shelters the entire way. We called our friends and reconnected, but no one knew where to go. Wait at the back of the park, some officials said, but I couldn’t bear to stand still, especially in a crowd. Rumors were flying: the shooter had been killed by security officers. No, he was alive and escaped into the river brush. There were two shooters. No, there were three. You could exit the park, but the trail was a treacherous mile hike. No, if you climbed a small hill you would emerge into a neighborhood. Where do you go when nowhere is safe, and the machine gun that shattered the lazy summer Garlic Festival could be anywhere?

We escaped through the neighborhood and found the middle school where survivors were congregating. Rumors told us a young girl had died. A teenager volunteering as a face painter borrowed my phone to call her family because she’d abandoned hers when she fled. We got separated soon after, and her mother and aunt called me for hours trying to locate her again. My friends and I walked away from everything. We found a shuttle to take us back to our car. At the bus doors paced a man drenched in dried blood, rambling unintelligibly in shock. The young girl we’d heard about earlier had died in his arms. He couldn’t save her.

Back in our car, we drove to a Jersey Mike’s. Over turkey sandwiches, we compared stories of how each of us had experienced our first active shooter. We speculated what happened and why. None of us could understand it. I was afraid to spend the night without them, these people who’d just shared the most traumatic moments of my life with me, but they had a long road trip ahead of them. Tommy and I drove back to our summer houses in the Bay, while the rest drove back to SLO.

Work the next day and the next day and the next day was hard. I spent hours staring at my computer screen, unmoving, trying not to obsess over what happened. But I kept replaying it. I kept checking the news updates and imagining different outcomes. I cried a lot. Whenever it overwhelmed me, I let it out. I think that was my first step. I tried to go to therapy, but there was no one in the area who could help me. To this day, I still haven’t gone. I want to, but I don’t, and I don’t know why. I can’t understand this enormous thing that happened to me, so I think my mind has put it away to protect itself. I haven’t healed much, but the healing I have done is through friends. Those of us who shared this awful experience have tried to counsel each other. None of us know how to navigate the aftermath of such a trauma, but we’re all trying so hard. We’re all trying so hard. There’s an unspoken bond between us forevermore.

The shooting was all I wanted to talk about for weeks. But I couldn’t share it, because people didn’t understand. No one I knew could relate. If I were to share this trauma on social media, I don’t think I could make you understand. I can never tell you the whole story because it’s too enormous for words, but it’s important to me that you understand every miniscule detail. Yet I can’t tell you how it felt that I didn’t immediately understand and run, how it felt to know that I escaped a murderer unscathed, how it felt to know that no apology could ever be enough. If you haven’t lived this moment, you don’t understand. And that’s okay, that’s not your fault – but I can’t share this pain with people who haven’t experienced it. I know what it’s like to run for my life, and I’m changed.

If this ever happens to you – heaven fucking forbid – protect yourself and your friends and your family and the people around you. Protect them in the moment and in the moments after. Do what you have to in order to heal, and don’t worry about rationalizing your process. You demand what you need, you do it your way, and don’t apologize for a second. I pray that you never ever run for your life. I pray that you never ever meet full panic and terror. But if you do, find someone who understands. Share your experiences, and work through your pain, in whatever way works for you. Remember that through every second, you are strong enough. You may be a different person now, and that’s okay. You didn’t deserve this trauma, but you will survive it. Girl, you are fierce, and no bullet can ever take that away from you.