Author Margrét Ann Thors looks back on a terrifying day in her childhood and how the trauma could have impacted her recollection of the events
This is how I remember it.
Colorado Springs, 2015. A frigid Black Friday. My dad reluctantly pulls our rental car into a shopping center and parks. He leaves the engine running. “I’ll be quick,” I promise my parents from the backseat.
Outside, hands shoved in my pockets for warmth, I hustle through a cluster of frost-tipped Christmas trees for sale, making for the double doors of a grocery store to grab a Greek yogurt for the drive back to Denver. A police car idles in front of the entrance, and another to its right. I press on. I’ll be quick…