Jake was running. He could hear shots behind him, but he couldn’t stop. He reached the stairwell and wrenched the door open. He didn’t look back, didn’t want to confront the mistake of saying “Hey, Dave, some maniac is shooting in here!” So on he ran.

He heard something downstairs, on the third floor landing, so he called out, “Hello? Someone, anyone, he’s here! Good God, he’s up here.” He stumbled down the stairs, fell on his face when he reached them. There were police, thank God, and they were going to save him.

They told him to go downstairs, so he did. He stumbled into the lobby, hands raised. “Don’t shoot, it wasn’t me! They’re getting him on the fourth floor!” The other officers the man had promised were nowhere to be seen. Jake let his arms fall limp to his sides. He walked toward the door, into the revolving part, then out into the sunshine.

He saw a couple of people who’d gotten out. Abigail, another intern, was wrapped in a tin foil blanket, and Alice, the secretary, was next to her, safe