She still remembers the bullets.
Not them whizzing through the house. Not the thunder of the gunshots themselves. Those only exist in her imagination. The same haunting imagination that pictured those bullets crashing like lightning through the window in the front of their home. The same imagination that saw them careening toward her son.
“‘Oh my gosh. They’re shooting at my child.’”
That was Lakeesha Hayes-Winfield’s first thought.
She was in a Zoom meeting for one of her two jobs when she saw her son, the second-oldest of her three boys, sprinting into the house.