The workers who survived the 2015 shooting can't tell you their names - but they want you to know their story.
By Jim Rendon
Oct 16, 2016, Cosmopolitan
Sitting on the couch in the living room of her Colorado home, a woman we’ll call Karen leafs through a small notebook as she gathers her thoughts. Her legs are curled up around her — her feet bare, toenails painted blue. She pauses on one page. At the top, she’s written the letters PTSD in all caps. The letters have been traced over and over again in ballpoint pen, leaving thick, dark creases in the paper. At the bottom is a doodle of flowers growing upward.
For most of the time that she and her husband have lived in their 100-year-old Craftsman house in a small mountain town, she never locked the front door. She would sometimes even leave it wide open when she was home. “I was always more afraid of a bear coming into the house than a human,” she jokes.
But that has changed. A reporter from the New York Times once knocked on her door, and she was terrified. If he can find me, anyone can, she thought. We should get more locks.
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