On a hot August morning, the two-year-old, small-scale restaurant in a small suburban shopping center in the suburbs of Minneapolis sits just off a highway.
The restaurant has just opened its doors, and its owner, a woman in her mid-50s, is on her way to an interview.
She’s in her 20s, with a long, grayish-brown hair and a thinning mustache.
The waitress, a girl in her 30s, greets her and gives her directions to the front of the restaurant.
The manager says that she has to bring the restaurant’s menu to her table, so the manager says, “Don’t bother asking.”
As she’s about to get the menu, the waitress spots a man sitting at the table.
The woman looks over to the man and sees him, too.
“I thought I was the only one in the restaurant,” she says.
The man smiles, says, Thank you very much.
He then walks to his car and gets into his black, two-door Mercedes.
He pulls out a handgun and says, You need to get out of here.
She turns to the manager and says I don’t want to talk to you, she says, because I’m afraid you’re going to shoot me.
The managers’ eyes widen and they turn away.
The two of them look at each other and go back to their seats.
The next thing I know, I’m walking toward my car with a gun in my hand.
They’re both still standing there, the manager saying, You got a problem?
She gets out of the car and walks toward the front door.
The waiter says, Hey, I need to know what’s going on.
She goes back to the booth and walks up to the door.
She says, I don.
I don the glasses, I get the plate.
She hands me the glasses and says You’re not the manager.
I’m the waitress.
And I’m like, What?
I’m not going to tell you.
She then walks away, back toward the door, and I look at her.
She has a gun to her head.
I go, That’s not me.
And then she walks away.
And that’s when I realized I had to get my car and drive myself to the hospital.
And the next thing that I know is that this is a very common thing, especially in small cities where you’re trying to make ends meet.
I’ve been shot at.
I have had to pull over.
And it happens to be a lot easier for a guy to pull you over because you don’t have to deal with police.
They will not even ask you for your license or registration, so if you have a gun, you’re probably not going have to do anything, you can just walk away.
So it’s not a situation where you are in danger.
And even if you are, you don and you know it, you know you’re not going anywhere.
And in some cities, like New York, they will even shoot you if you don.
There’s no reason why you shouldn’t drive yourself to the emergency room.
You’re in your own car.
You are in your car and you’re a victim of a violent crime.
And you don?t have to worry about being pulled over, you just have to make sure you drive yourself there, which you have to be able to do.
The driver of the Mercedes says, Well, I have to get back to my car.
I get out.
I look over to my driver and he says, That?s not me, that’s the man.
He turns around and runs off.
And so we get there.
I am still waiting for the man to come back to his vehicle.
I was just standing there.
And when I got there, he was still there.
So I go over and say, I didn?t see you.
And he says that?s what happened.
And as I looked down at my hand and saw that the blood was still on the gun, I knew I had done something wrong.
I felt that pain, that I did something wrong, but I was still holding on.
And my fear and my anxiety and my panic, that part of my brain that is the part that can’t handle it, is still there and it just didn?
t stop me from getting out of there and getting to the police station.
When it was my turn to speak to the officer, he said, Why didn?re you going to the airport?
And I said, I had nothing to do with this.
He said, You did.
And there was silence.
Then I looked over at him and said, What are you doing?
And he said I’m sorry, and he said that I need your assistance, and then he asked me, What was your name?
And when he said my name, I said my last name, and that’s all