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At 1:00, I realize I haven’t thought about Wade for almost eleven whole minutes.

At 1:03, a man in a black coat walks through the front doors, and my heart nearly stops until I decide this man is way too young to be the gunman. I still sink down behind the magazine racks until he disappears.

At 1:15, a dark sedan moves slowly through the parking lot. I stand in aisle two, half–hidden behind stacked cardboard boxes, and follow it with my eyes until it slips past the end of the row, probably just looking for a spot.

At 1:37, another dark car does the same thing. A different car, I think, though I’m not completely sure.

By 2:00, I’m starting to realize how many black vehicles exist in the world.

At 2:40, I’m working at register four when a customer places a pack of gum, a can of black coffee, and a newspaper onto the belt.

He has big hands, a dark jacket, and my stomach drops. That is, until I look up, forcing myself to breathe, and find that this man looks much older than the shooter and has a very furry gray mustache.

“Did you find everything okay?” I manage to ask, hopefully keeping most of the anxiety from my voice.

“Yep.”

The barcode beeps as I scan his items.

“Nine twenty-seven,” I tell him.

He fishes out a ten, and when his fingers accidentally brush mine as he hands it over, I recoil before catching myself and taking the bill.

“Sorry,” I whisper.

“Sure,” the man says, a small frown on his face.

I hand him his change, then watch him tuck his purchases under his arm and walk away.

I hate myself a little.

By 3:00, every man I see is the killer until I prove otherwise in my head. Every black car is his. Every phone ring is the police, probably to tell me they know I saw someone get murdered and didn’t report it. I know it’s not like I purposefully did anything bad, but my mind is fixated on the idea that the police will want to arrest me for not coming forward.

I tell myself this is normal—trauma normal.

I know because I spent most of yesterday morning asking Google variations of “is it normal to keep seeing someone die after you watched them die” before clearing my browser history.

Acute stress response.

Hypervigilance.

Intrusive memories.

Startle response.

Dissociation.

All words that made me feel strangely comforted because words mean that other people have experienced something enough times to name it. And if other people feel like I do, then I’m not losing my mind; I’m just traumatized.

At 3:58, Marla tells me I can clock out. Relief and dread tumble together when I swipe out. My coat is hanging in the employee area, still slightly damp around one sleeve because nothing I own ever dries properly in our house.

I check my phone, but there are no new notifications.

I should feel relieved, but the silence feels ominous.

How long does it take to find a body? Surely someone has found Wade by now. It’s not like we were deep in the woods or something. People had to eventually come through. Police had to have found him.

Right?