Back when I was in college, and I was staying at my parents' house (cheaper to commute), I was doing laundry in the basement when I heard two pops. It was late. I knew they were gunshots because a few hours before that I was at the range touching off a few hundred of my own (just bought a rusky SKS).

Fifteen year old kid that lived across the street was shot twice in his back. Something about someone he ripped off in a drug deal. Killer hid behind my mailbox (one of the big communal ones), next to my car, and ran past my yard up the hill behind my house to where he stashed his car.

I remember the way I flew up two flights of steps. The way I looked when I had an SKS in my hands and three ten round stripper clips tucked in a hoody pocket. I remember going 'oh shit, I hope I didn't drop any brass earlier when I unloaded the car.' I thought about the cops looking at all the gun cleaning supplies on the kitchen table and the powder residue that was still probably on my clothes. Then I remember hearing him dying and none of that seemed important.

The ambulance showed up at a peel - two dudes dove out of it and ran to him. I remember the way they walked slowly back to their truck, heads low and knowing he was dead. I remember the cops showing up with a massive crime lab with spotlights so they could work. I remember the sound his mother made when she's rushed home after someone called her. Three cops held her back.

I remember total numbness. Someone was dead. I don't remember much about talking to the cops, but I've never forgotten how that woman sounded when she saw her child laying there.

I learned a lot that night. What pain sounded like. What loss sounded like. How dense the fog is when things you don't expect happen - and how quickly they happen.

I stayed in my house and watched the people who lived next door to the kid try to help him. We all stood in the kitchen and just watched. I regret that more than anything in my life.

Sorry to hijack, but this story reminded me. Was anyone hurt?