The ambulances were loaded now, filled with the screaming and dying. The dead remained in the office building, waiting to be catalogued and identified. Emile, one of the many crime scene technicians assigned to this case, began making his way around the lobby. He did not know that he was being watched from outside.

Blair sat on a bench across the street, her black velvet skirt wrinkled above her purple tights. The policeman brought her a can of Sprite and a blanket; he looked sad. She took the Sprite, but it was too hot for a blanket. He sat next to her as she sipped.

“Now, what’s your name again, sweetie?” he asked in a little-kid voice. Blair hated that. She was nine, not four. She didn’t answer, just fixed her hair.

“Blair.” she finally responded, “Blair Woodsen.” He nodded. He started asking her questions, about man with the gun, and her mom, and the stapler. “It was on my mom’s desk, and he was pointing the gun at himself, so I threw it.” She explained with a shrug. He laughed, she frowned.