We had the details within minutes. The first shot had cracked the double-paneled bulletproof glass protecting Wrightman and his family, then ricocheted into the exposed VIP section below the booth. It struck Senator Grace Lindsey in her right shoulder, breaking her collarbone. The second shot hit and killed Treasury Secretary Penelope Farber, who had just left the president’s box hoping to beat at least some of the traffic. The third shot grazed Army master sergeant Glenn Deutsch, who was standing guard at the entrance to the reviewing stand.

The panic had erupted even before the echoes had faded. Spectators scattered like a blob of paint struck by a hammer. Marchers either hit the street or scrambled for shelter. They had no way of responding; while the parade had been the most impressive display of military hardware in one place ever seen in this country, for safety reasons, none of the participants had been issued live ammunition.

More shots were fired. A later investigation revealed that a female Secret Service agent had fired two shots at a figure standing in the window of a building across the street; she testified she was certain she had seen that person aiming a rifle. Her shots missed the target but did incite additional chaos. An estimated one million spectators began pushing back from the wooden barriers, trying to get to safety. Many people fell, including children. Network cameras covered the entire event. One handheld was dropped as the cameraperson had been knocked down, and ABC switched to the ground-level shot of countless legs fleeing. The announcers were doing a lot of shouting, but no one was making a lot of sense.

I heard another shot. That probably was the moment a bank officer named Anthony Eldridge, who had pulled out his legally concealed weapon to protect his wife and two children from being trampled, was shot dead by a D.C. police officer who mistook him for the gunman.

The final toll was fourteen dead, including Farber and Eldridge, a four-year-old who was crushed by the mob, and two men who died of heart attacks, while an additional hundred and thirty people required hospitalization. The president and his entourage were led to armored limousines behind the reviewing stand and taken to a secure location in the subbasement of the White House.

Martha had refused an invitation to the parade, so I knew Jenny was safe. As I went to work, I remembered the angry voices at the last anti-government meeting. This has been coming for a long time, I thought. A long time. And then I was struck by another, darker realization: this was what Wrightman had been waiting for.

Three hours after the assassination attempt the president appeared on television and social media. It was obvious he had been carefully made up to appear as if he hadn’t been made up, that the strain on his face was natural. But whoever had done it had stopped halfway between his jawline and his neck, and a completely different shade of skin was visible. Some makeup artist had forgotten the lessons of Trump and his sprayed-on orange tan. It was a half-chinned job. “Neither Carrie nor I were injured in this despicably evil attack,” he began, oozing sincerity, “and the first lady and I truly appreciate the literally millions of good wishes we have received. But unfortunately, many people were hurt, and we want to send our condolences and sympathy to all the victims of this act. We know how you feel…” A pause of three beats here. “The entire White House family is mourning the death of Treasury Secretary Farber, a deeply loved person. Out of respect for all of the people killed and wounded today I have ordered American flags flown at half-mast.”