The only reason I tried to be as still as I could, while lying underneath my father’s body was because I was playing dead. While trying to make sure that my breathing wasn’t noticeable, I was trying to be as conscious as I could be under the circumstances. As much as I wanted to scream, as much as I wanted to ask why this was happening, I figured that, as long as I didn’t move, then whoever was shooting would think he had killed everyone in the car and would leave as quickly as he had come upon us. I had hoped my father wasn’t dead, but he had stopped moving suddenly, and his body felt like a lead blanket spread out over me. He was heavy. I could hardly breathe. A minute earlier, my father had yelled and moved in front of me to block me as a man had reached in the driver’s side window with a gun and had unloaded it throughout the car, spraying all of us with bullets. Did he know my mother’s best friend who was driving my older brother to the emergency room because of his asthma? Did he know my brother, who was slumped over in the passenger seat, or was it one of those random muggings that we so often hear about on television and think it could never happen to us because of where we lived?
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