I run out of the car when we arrive at the hospital. When I reach the lobby I quickly walk to the front desk to ask about Uncle Jack.
“Please, I am here to see Jackson James,” I say to the woman at the front desk wearing a nurse uniform.
“He is still in surgery. You can wait in there,” she says, pointing to the door by her left.
“Why is he in surgery? What happened to him?”
“He was shot,” the nurse says.
I feel my legs suddenly give out and I have to use the desk to stop from falling. I don’t want to believe her.
“Shot? He was shot? How? Why? How?” I ask the nurse multiple times, not believing what I’m hearing.
“I don’t know why dear, but the doctors are doing everything they can to save him.”
“Why would someone shoot my uncle? Why?” I ask no one, in particular. I feel someone wra
