She was paralyzed because, in that moment, she knew she was going to die. He was going to start firing that gun and she would feel the bullets tear into her one at a time and then she’d be dead. But he kept coming and he didn’t fire the gun. He got closer and closer, mouth open as he screamed at her, but he didn’t fire the gun. Latrice dropped her cell phone because she forgot she was holding it, then reached her left hand out toward the sink piled high with dirty dishes and closed it on the first thing she touched—something hard and cold, long and round, a handle of some kind—but when she tried to lift it, there was resistance, so she pulled hard, then gave it a strong jerk, and the pile of dishes and pots and pans collapsed in a loud clatter, some of them falling to the floor and scattering. A plate shattered on the tiles. She threw the pot at the man as hard as she could and gasped loudly with surprise when it struck him on the forehead. That sent his feet flying upward and the gun flying from his hands and tumbling into the air.
