Why are there cops at our house? Why are they talking about Danny? “Where is he?” she says. “Is he all right?” The taller cop looks down at his partner. I have this weird feeling that they tossed a coin before they rang our doorbell—the loser gets to tell the family. “Was he in an accident?” my mother says. I glance at my father. His face is somber. He is bracing himself for bad news. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mrs. Carter,” the shorter cop says, “but he’s been shot.” “Shot?” My mother looks stunned. She shakes her head. Then, just for a second, I see the hint of a smile on her face, like she thinks this must be a joke. “No,” she says. “That’s not possible.” She sounds so positive. “You’ve made a mistake.” “Your son is Daniel Christopher Carter,” the shorter cop says. “Yes,” my mother says, confused and alarmed. I can see it in her eyes. “Yes, that’s my son. He’s been shot?” It’s like she can’t believe it. “Is he all right?”
