I was at work. I went down the hall to ask the old man if he wanted to take a shower. It was still very early in the morning. I noticed that he had forgotten to flush the toilet, and flushed it on my way into the room, calling out to him. I had to move his aluminum Klein bicycle to get into the bathroom, and noticed that the tires were flat. I had to move two wheelchairs, too, before moving the shower chair into the shower. He was sitting on the toilet, but said he didn't want a shower. When I tried to convince him, he jumped up and ran off. I chased him, jumping in the cab of the truck just in time for him to take off. I briefly noticed a woman who looked like she was running away, walking beside the road before my attention was diverted by traffic. Suddenly I was the one driving, but I couldn't reach the controls. We were going way too fast on the narrow road on the side of the mountain. We finally came to a stop, somehow winding up in a room. The woman who had been running away had an accomplice now. She panicked when she realized that we had seen her, pulling out a gun. I ducked behind the stairs and motioned the old man to get down. She fired a shot way too near the old man, but still missed him. He crumpled to the floor in a heap, too scared to move. The woman and her accomplice ran off down the hall, and I picked up the old man and walked off the other direction, trying to find my way back through the maze of hallways. In a place where two building seemed to be joined together, I asked someone in the hall for directions. She pointed me the same way we were going. When we got back, no one had even missed us. I insisted that we should call the police about the shots that had been fired, but no one seemed concerned. The day shift was arriving. Time to go home.
Dispatch from Portland's March for Our Lives
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