We waited too long to leave. Now what do we do?” Andrea Kaminski ran fingers through her hair. At the age of sixty-eight, the hair was gray now and a lot shorter, but it was still as thick as it had been when she was a youngster. Nobody in the living room said anything. As was true of Andy herself, they were all staring at the images on the big plasma TV screen. Staring at the images—and listening to the sounds. “You can easily hear the gunfire,” said the TV announcer, a middle-aged man by the name of Bob Lubrano. He turned to the younger woman sitting next to him at the long announcers’ desk, who was looking at something out of the view of the audience. “Can you see anything, Karen?” Karen Wakefield shook her head, still not taking her eyes from whatever she was looking at. Another TV monitor, presumably. “Other than the traffic jam on I-80 which we’re showing our audience, nothing. I’m not sure where that gunfire is coming from.” Andy thought calling the scene being shown on the screen a “traffic jam”
