The front door went crashing to the floor with a bang, drawing in the noise from outside.
A woman screaming. Gunshots gutting all hope from the afternoon air.
I fell through my bedroom doorway, catching myself on my nightstand. I grabbed my piggy bank, dropped it into a long sock, and climbed in my wardrobe to hide. I sank through my clothes, the story of my life passing through my mind like a bittersweet film reel.
Would I die?
Was I okay to die?
Had I done enough? Had I done anything?
I was silent with these thoughts, because any noise I made might bring my death on quicker. Smells of wool, wood, mints, and shoe polish melded into a toxic aroma around me, and it made me feel sick, like I’d drunk poison.
“I saw you go in there,” the invader said.
And his footsteps, which approached the wardrobe at a pace quicker than I was ready for, made the reality of the moment set in—I’d either die or fight.
He ripped open the door and pulled me out by my shirt.
In the clumsy collision, I threw my weight into his body and crashed us into the wall. The gun fell from his hand and I kicked it across the floor. He pushed me off and then swung, but I ducked, landing a punch into his stomach, which caused him to keel over. More white men charged into the house as he got his bearings, and I ran to the open window. A gunshot popped behind me, whistling by my knees as I dove into the grass. And I sprinted forward.
Forward toward the bushes of the neighboring house, and then through their back lawn. Over the fence to the next one, my heart pulsing through my throat, my feet moving on instinct.
I climbed over a wooden fence and ducked low as I pressed forward. I glanced to my left and saw through the small channels between houses that horses steered by white men were galumphing through my town. The men came with other men, in sheriff’s hats, who were on foot. I paused as one man kicked down a warning sign on a lawn that readCareful: Children, andbarged into the house to start shooting.
And there it set in: We were being massacred. Not because we did anything. Just because we were us.
Run, came Pa’s voice, as if he were still with me.
I climbed over another fence, still moving on impulse, as my mind was not stable. Gruesome images of the past few minutes flashed through my brain—the face of Pa’s killer.
I lost balance and landed in a heap in the mud.
I was in a stable yard, belonging to one of my neighbors who lived near the forest. There was a horse confined in a wooden stall, who reared up on her hind legs and whinnied at the sight of me. She’d be my companion. On horseback, I could shift my weight to make my head harder to strike for anyone pursuing me from behind. I didn’t need to see more to know that the horror of this day was only getting started.
I approached the horse’s gear, which hung on the stable wall. Pa kept no horses, but my grandparents did, so I knew how to do this.I placed the saddle on the horse’s back and mounted it in the shade. And then I kicked off, adjusting to my new position of power, gripping the reins and working up some momentum. When the moment was right, I pulled and we soared, over the fence and out of the yard, into the forest.
The canopy took me into its shadows. Still, through the gaps in pine, I caught glimpses of the invaders, coming toward our homes as I rushed away. There were dozens and counting, as more arrived. A mob was upon us.
I had to get to Mr. Wallace. I worried for his safety, and he wasabout the only person I knew who could protect me.
Deep in the forest a cross burned, and a church burned behind it, so hard that the smoke blocked my airways, even from yards away. I could’ve sworn I saw bodies dancing in flames. I didn’t recognize their faces in that haze—all I saw were flames, as the horse galloped through the woods, trampling the underbrush with its manic gallop.
I steered the horse back toward civilization, so we could emerge from the woods and ride into downtown. There was fire here too, and more invaders, who were only partially visible in the thickening smoke as I approached Main Street.
Men shooting through the windows of a bank, more raiding the grocery store, laughing evilly and loading our food into their cars.
Our hotel had been set ablaze—all corners of the place targeted somehow. It had become a standing meteor, doomed to collapse.
Our men were trying to stop the invaders, camping out behind cars to return their gunfire. I saw a white man in a cowboy hat melting down the side of a car, bleeding from a bullet wound and thought, in a moment of triumph,We’re getting hits in too.
But the violence hurt to see. I blinked away from it and kicked forward until I found Mr. Wallace’s porch. I dismounted the horse and set her free to run off where she may—I had no time to tie her up before running for the door to escape stray gunfire.
Mr. Wallace was already pulling me in before I could knock.
“Almost gotcha self killed, Nick,” he said as he closed the door. “What are you doing back out here?”
I coughed out dust and took in the cold air of the shop. Thesmell of chair leather was like a hug from someone familiar. A much-needed hug.
