That was when I heard the snowshoer say, “Shit—not a broomstick!” She didn’t whisper. I should never have looked away from our marine, who was not a marine. When I looked again at the back of the lounge now, the small heavyweight had removed the rifle from the long sack slung over his shoulder—not a gift bag, I was thinking, when I saw the tall Santa take aim, sighting down the barrel.

We would later read that there was nothing special about the inexpensive gun—a bolt-action .30-06 Springfield with a magazine that held four rounds. We would learn that it was Emory Trowbridge’s intention to shoot Em first; he’d written in a notebook that he wanted Nora to know Em was dead before he shot Nora. After that, if he had time, he would shoot Mr. Barlow. The fourth bullet was for Emory Trowbridge himself. Not knowing his diary entries, I saw Trowbridge take aim at Em—that was all I knew.

In the dispersing crowd, most of the remaining audience were waiting for the next act, whether they were sitting or standing. From the stage, Nora and Em had the clearest view of the Santa with the long arms and the rifle. They had no reason to recognize Emory Trowbridge; they’d not been at Coach Dearborn’s memorial service. I saw that Em had found a new way to pantomime being paralyzed by fear—Em knew where the gun was pointing. Nora knew, too—Nora never hesitated. Nora couldn’t have looked paralyzed by fear if she tried. It looked almost like a dance move—the way Nora threw her hips into Em, knocking Em to her knees. (How those two loved to dance!) Then Nora stood in front of Em, completely blocking her from the shooter. Notwithstanding the backup heavyweight’s plans, he began by killing Nora; his first shot hit her in her heart.

There was only one shot, but pandemonium broke out and I lost sight of the stage. I knew Nora was down; I assumed Em was down on the stage with her. I’d seen the snowshoer drop to all fours before the first shot was fired. I knew she wasn’t taking cover. Mr. Barlow could move fast on all fours. I watched her make her way through the ankles in the crowd, navigating the legs of chairs and tables. I quickly lost sight of her, but I’d seen where she was headed—toward the shooter. I could have tracked the little English teacher’s progress through the panicked audience, the drinks spilled on tables, the toppled chairs—the suddenly falling people who tripped over the snowshoer, not expecting someone so small to be scampering on all fours—but I didn’t dare take my eyes off Emory Trowbridge. He was watching me, too, but I had nowhere to hide; there were people cowering under the nearby tables, where there was no room for me.