It seemed like the entire SDPD had been called in.

Emergency vehicles are a common sight on El Cajon Boulevard, and it was certainly not the first time they’d stopped at my Rolando apartment complex. But this time, something was different. The fire truck’s lights kept flashing after the siren stopped its wail. I hadn’t even seen the police arrive, but they slipped out of the building to meet the firefighters, who geared up as if the place was ablaze, even though there had been no alarm.

Then I heard the gunshots. Three quick pops, followed by a deluge. An ambulance pulled up. Another fire truck. Another police car. A group of firefighters jogged down the alley alongside the building. Knowing the door there was locked, I left my condo to let them in. They refused me; one said, “We have to go around back. Do you know where the fireman is trapped?”

“No.” I shook my head, trying to guess what he meant.

“Return to your unit. There’s a shooter.” Gunfire blasted randomly, but more or less continuously. More police arrived, heavily armed and armored, and rushed from their vehicles. One officer grabbed a shotgun from his trunk and ran toward the barrage of bullets. Others arranged themselves into groups and stormed the complex. Shots blasted down the driveway near the parking level. Sirens played a background track to the barrage of bullets. It was early, maybe 2 am on a Sunday morning, and a war was taking place, right here at home, while I was in my pajamas.

Ever since that day, any bullet-like sound freezes me.

Someone knocked on my door. It was the police: three officers, each backing up the next, weapons in hand. The lead officer said, “We’re evacuating the building. Everyone has to leave.”

“Can I grab my shoes?”

“Hurry. Put them on,”

I also grabbed my jacket, wallet and keys — but forgot my phone. The officers conducted me to the stairwell, which another officer guarded, and out through the alley door. Three more officers watched our proceedings while also checking the building — particularly the windows and the balconies — for potential peril. I was escorted across the Boulevard to a spot behind a strip of flimsy yellow tape that was supposed to separate the rescued from danger. I wasn’t so sure I was safe; bullets travel fast and far. Police cars and emergency vehicles stretched two long blocks or more in each direction. It seemed like the entire SDPD had been called in, as well as the state police, highway police, and SWAT.

Eventually, the shooting stopped, but not the activity. News crews, pedestrians, and additional law enforcement officers continued to arrive for what seemed like an hour after the initial engagement. I realized I was chilly, clad only in pajamas and a light jacket. I worried that my daughter might see the address on the news and worry about me, but I couldn’t contact her without my phone. My neighbors stood nearby, chatting about their experiences and waiting to find out what was happening. I mentioned that I had forgotten my cell phone, and someone offered to lend me theirs. “My daughter’s number is in my phone,” I replied. “Who remembers numbers these days?”

Hours passed. Some people looked for news on their smartphones, and someone discovered that the police had come to investigate a complaint about a commotion in one of the units. They had knocked on the door, but no one had answered. Smoke had been coming from within. They called in the firefighters, who broke down the door. That’s when the shooting started. One of the people near me said, “They sent a robot into the building…to get to where the firefight began. To see who’s dead or alive.”

It had been a long time since we’d heard any shots. A young man wanted to return to his apartment despite the risk, and complained to the officer guarding the line of yellow tape. The child he had with him kept crossing under the tape, and the man defended the boy’s actions. The officer remained stoic despite the man’s antagonism and corralled the child. I wanted her to arrest the man, to smack some sense into him, to stop the insanity. Someone was dead or dying, maybe many someones. Let the police do their job.

I fought to remember my daughter’s number, and it came to me that I might have written it down and kept the paper in my wallet. Searching through the wallet, I found it. I borrowed my neighbor’s phone and left my daughter a quick message that I was okay.

Eventually, they let most of us return to our homes. I locked my door. Soon after, someone tested my door, trying to open it, and disappeared before I could see who it was. I wondered if someone was trying to break into the apartments — mine had been unlocked during the evacuation, vulnerable to theft. It would take some audacity to rob someone right under the nose of all those police. I can’t remember how long it was before I was able to sleep.

In the days following the firefight, I wanted to see the aftermath of the encounter, but officers had been assigned to each end of the two hallways that converged at the shooter’s condo to prevent civilians from going in. Those who lived down those halls were kept out of their units for weeks afterward.

I learned that two officers had been wounded, and that one was critically injured. But the firefighter trapped in the condo, the one who needed to be rescued during the conflict, got out safely. The shooter had suffered from some paranoia or maybe some other mental illness, and may have thought someone was trying to attack him when the door was busted in. I learned afterward that he had been wearing protective armor, as if expecting an attack.

I had seen him arrested once, and I found out through some gossip that he had spent some time in a facility, maybe a hospital or jail. He had been prone to outbursts, and had numerous conflicts with the adjoining unit’s occupants. I can only guess that the man’s disorder wasn’t treated correctly, or that he wouldn’t take the drugs he needed — if indeed he had been prescribed any. It’s like that sometimes; I understand. I appreciate the medicine I take for my stability.

All that was years ago. I never found out much more than I’ve written here; one side of me doesn’t even want to know. But ever since that day, any bullet-like sound freezes me as I listen for return fire. And there is fear in that silence, in that waiting, in that uncertainty about the bullet’s trajectory.