It sounded like gunfire.

I’d heard enough gunfire in my life to know what it sounded like.

After checking to make sure my RV door was locked, I waited and listened, afraid to lookout the window to find out how close the gunman was.

I’d arrived at the Laughlin, Nevada casino RV park earlier in the day. Only a few other RVers—maybe around 20—were spread around the area.

Casinos always had cameras in their overnight RV parking vicinity, and although the space wasn’t gated, it was supposed to be safe.

The gunfire was sporadic, with pauses between bursts, as if it took a few seconds to walk from one RV to the next. Sometimes the blasts were closer, and at other times, a little farther away.

Assuming the police dealt quickly with disgruntled gamblers, I waited for rescue sirens but heard none. Why didn’t the police come?

For two hours after the gunfire died away, I stayed huddled on the couch with my dog. I’m not sure who was protecting whom. Neither a Golden Retriever nor I stood much of a chance against a deranged gunman, but at least we comforted each other.

The next day, I felt foolish when asked if I enjoyed the casino’s fireworks display. Fireworks in March?

I can honestly say I did not.