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As I read the text message, my heart dropped.

There’s a shooting. We’re hiding in a basement.

My son, usually one to use correct grammar, punctuation, and spelling, sent a second message that I could barely make out.

Weeee hiding in the base of Tropicana. Everyone is running and screaming.

Where are mom and dad? My fingers were shaking as I typed the words.

In here with us. There are 12 of us. Yιαγιά tripped.

My mom fell? My heart was in my throat by this point. I asked him for more details about the shooter.

We don’t know. It was an automatic weapon. Call the police, phone won’t work. We’re hiding in base of Tropicana, in the back hallway. We’re blocking the doors. Ok the alarms are going off.

It was 1:30 a.m. and I was at my daughter’s house with no cable television. Just Netflix. I could not watch the news and Google on my phone was not giving me anything about a shooting in Las Vegas. I hurried up the stairs to check on my three-year-old grandson, Brayden, who was sound asleep. Kiana was at the hospital with my four-year-old granddaughter, Dariana, who was sick and running a fever which is the reason I was on babysitting duty that night.

I called my brother three times before he answered.

“Mom, dad, and Kyle are hiding in the Tropicana. There is an active shooter,” I screamed into the phone.