It was a cold winter night, on an unfamiliar street. Driving in my minivan, I double-parked to rearrange a bunch of disheveled stuff in the van. We were on a long journey and had many of our belongings with us, including warm blankets, sleeping bags, and clothing. My two sons were with me, the younger one asleep.
Two men driving by threw a cardboard box into the van. I knew immediately that the box contained a bomb. Someone was after me; there were terrorists on the loose, and I knew I was a target. I had to act quickly. The bomb could explode at any moment.
I tried to get rid of the bomb. Boldly I grabbed the box and heaved it away, toward a van parked near mine. The box was very burdensome and I did not manage to heave it very far, in that way where arms turn to rubber in dreams. Dissatisfied, I picked it up again and tried to heave it across the street. Again it did not go far enough, so I decided to get the boys out of the van. I picked up a couple of items for warmth but needed to remove the boys first, then come back for other things if I had time.
I wouldn’t really know if I had time, and it would be a worse tragedy if I relocated, and saved, the boys, but then died trying to return for belongings. As I removed the boys from the van I knew this trip away from the van would be it.
My younger son was sleeping as I carried him away from the van, while holding the hand of my older son, who was barefoot. I hurried toward a large school building. Looking at the belongings I had with me, I wasn’t sure if I had shoes for my son. The ground was covered with a few inches of icy snow.
We hustled to a spot where I had conveniently already brought a few things I needed to unload at the school, including a couple of fleece blankets. I laid the sleeping child down on a blanket, partly wrapped in a cardboard box to keep him warm. I said to my older son, “I will be right back. If you need anything, ask a grown-up from the school.” I was trying to maintain utter calm and act as though my behavior was normal to shield my son from panic. He asked questions and I did not answer. I could see his confusion in his eyes.
As I was about to return to the van, thinking I might have time before the alleged bomb went off, another vehicle screeched up the street. Two men emerged and got in my van. I had left the keys in there, along with my cell phone, purse, wallet, and many other personal things. The man sitting in my van’s driver’s seat yelled out to me, “Thanks for the keys!” and drove my van away.
This simplified a few issues for me. I no longer felt the bomb was a threat. Maybe it was a ruse to get me out of my own van in a hurry, so these villains could steal it.They were after something in the van. In running away, needing to get my sons to safety, I likely left behind whatever it was they wanted.
A woman came out of the school buildling and offered us shelter. I brought the boys inside and asked about using a phone. The woman showed me to a small alcove plastered with flyers and notices on the wall with community news. One was a wanted poster showing a picture of a man who looked familiar. He reminded me of the father of someone I knew, but I couldn’t put my finger on it, nor did I think I had ever met the man. But somewhere in my mind it connected to the bomb and the theft, and the general air of threat that hung over me. I wanted to call my husband but didn’t know his phone number. So the phone in the alcove was useless.
My boys and I devised a makeshift place to spend the night at the school building, with the few belongings that we had. I felt grateful to be alive.