Around 10 a.m. on Oct. 27, I left my house in Squirrel Hill to go for a run. As I waited to cross Murray Avenue, a police car raced up the center of the street. I found it strange, but I kept on, passing dozens of Jewish families heading to synagogue. I ran in the street to give them room. I saw one mother beckon to a little boy lingering on the threshold of their home, and I smiled at him. Then I entered the park and disappeared into the reverie of my music and my run until, 20 minutes later, my husband, Jorge, called.
“There’s an active shooter in the neighborhood,” he said. “Don’t come home. We’re not allowed to go outside.”
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