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By the time the police secured the area and medical personnel arrived, I had counted at least fifteen people dead. Dozens of others were severely wounded and traumatized. Rodeo had been transported to the hospital, with his cousin Nicole trailing after the ambulance. Those of us with noncritical injuries were herded into the club’s lobby to await questioning.
Conor, Caden, Kirsten, and I huddled together in a far corner. An EMT had treated my burned hand and loosely wrapped it in gauze. Despite Conor’s jacket draped over my shoulders, I shivered from adrenaline withdrawal and the chill of the December night air blowing through the lobby’s open doors.
As we waited, I consulted privately with Kirsten, giving her my account of events. She made some suggestions on wording and on specific
