Some days are like a hot iron, searing their events into your memory. This was one of them—sun shining, birds chirping, and me playing on the front porch of our cracker-box rental house in North Denver.
To my five-year-old self, it was a perfect afternoon. No gunshots, no gang-filled cars creeping by looking for trouble as they often did in our neighborhood, where my family was no stranger to violence. (We were often at the center of it.)
Everything was good that day—at least until ...
