TorrieMy driveway is a sea of screaming, blaring vehicles.
Looks like the Piccolos all finally got back from the funeral, and they are not happy.
They’re yelling at the paramedics, barring their way.
As I walk up, a red-faced paramedic demands, “Are you Torrie Piccolo?”
“Yes, we need you inside,” I say, “Several men have been hurt, shot. They’re in a room in the basement. I’ll join you there in a minute.”
Even as the other paramedics rush past, Oma is bellowing protests, “A mistake, there has to be a mistake! The Piccolos are a good family! There can’t be men shot inside!”
Taking her wrinkled hand in my own, I lean in to her, speak softly to her, “Oma, it’s okay. There’s been an accident, but it’s fine now. It’s all going to be fine now.”
She falls silent, gives her head a sort of w
