The LSAT, Moving, and Applying to Law School

Before taking the LSAT, I wrote a post about how stressed I was. And I was really stressed. I wrote about the weight of each and every test question, and how my overall score would be impacted by the questions on which I guessed. I whined and worried. I tried to joke about it, but I really was losing my mind.

In real life (not the interwebs), people would ask me how I was feeling and if I was ready, and I would tell them I was stressed, and they would basically try to persuade me that I shouldn’t be stressed, which made me more stressed. Also, I think there’s something to be said for each person having a process of preparation, and mine happens to involve stress… so it’s possible that my stress helped prepare me and helped improve my score, so eff all of the people who kept trying to talk me out of stressing.

Result of my stress: I actually ended up scoring higher on the LSAT than I had ever scored on any of my practice tests. Basically, my score was good enough that I should have no trouble getting in to any law school that is not Ivy League. Also, it means that I should receive some scholarship money.


You’d think I’d feel pretty awesome, but I’m actually stressed again.

I am now having all of my info sent to a credential assembly service, which is stressful to me. I am also taking more steps towards selling my house. I am also trying to figure out where I actually want to apply, which impacts when I should sell my house…

All of this is frustrating and, well, stressful to me…

Not having the internet at home or a printer at Starbucks, I end up having about 42 extra steps for each piece of paper I need someone to send to the credential assembly service, because I’ll go to Sbucks to use the internet, only to realize that I have to print something, which requires that I also go to the library. I know it doesn’t sound like a big deal, but it bothers me. It bothers me that I have to ask a ton of people to send a ton of things somewhere for me, and then I have to wait for them to do it. It bother me that I’m not sure how to make decisions about where to apply. Pretty much every step of this process bothers me.

For undergrad, I only applied to U of A, because I knew that’s where I would go. I knew I’d be accepted. I knew I didn’t want to go anywhere else, and I didn’t feel the need to have backups.

Now that I’m all growed up, I feel I should follow the advice of the experts, who think I should apply to something like 25 schools. Now, realistically, I’m definitely not doing that. I might apply to 8 schools, but it seems like a big, stupid waste of time and stress, because I really don’t intend to move. Applying to Boston College might satisfy some part of me that thinks it would be an adventure to move to Boston, but if I received a full-ride from both Boston College and U of A (which isn’t going to happen, but I’m just saying…), then I would stay in Arizona. Still, I feel obligated to think about all of the places I’m applying, just in case it might be a good idea to move, even though I really don’t want to move.

So, for your perusal, here’s the list of places I may apply… or I may only apply to the U of A again. We’ll see.

U of A


University North Carolina Charlotte

Wake Forest


Boston College


University of Oregon (or perhaps it’s Oregon State? I can never remember … the one in Eugene)


I expect I’ll be accepted to all of those except Duke. How do I even consider so many different possibilities? How do I even think about moving to another state, where I would live without Steve and Lori, my church, Victim Services, and basic knowledge of the city? How do I even think about living in the snow? There’s nothing worse than snow. I’m completely open to going somewhere for a few years, if it’s definitely temporary, but everything I’ve read says I should go to law school in the place where I intend to practice law. Moving to Boston for three years would be cool, but for the rest of my life possibly? I don’t know about that. There’s too much pressure on this one decision.

I know… 1st world problems, eh?



How Am I so Effing Slow?

I am looking into the possibility of going to law school in 2017 or 2018.

What I have discovered is that I may not have much trouble getting in… but the trouble will come with the paying for it. Although I am prepared to sell my house, quit my job, and take out loans, I’m really not going to feel comfortable going for it unless I can get about half of it paid for by scholarships.

How does one get a scholarship to attend law school, you ask? Well, the best chance of getting one large scholarship is scoring really high on the LSAT. Of course I will look into other avenues for scholarships, but I actually am a very good taker of tests, so I thought I’d start with the LSAT. Since the LSAT is required of me just to get in and I’d probably want to take it by December, if not September, I thought I should get on that. Also, taking the LSAT is a nice, noncommittal step I can take to gauge whether this is a terrible idea or not.

I took a diagnostic test yesterday. And I did not do terribly. I scored average for all takers of the LSAT, so I certainly would need to do better if I want to both get into law school and receive moneys.

There are some very specific things I struggled with, though.

  1. Who the hell thought it was a good idea to test people for 180 minutes? That’s a horribly long time to sit still and think, and I don’t have the stamina I used to have. I will need to take a lot of practice tests to get myself used to sitting for that long.
  2. I need to think significantly faster. There were 102 questions on the test, and I didn’t even get to 12 of them. I also got something like 8 questions wrong towards the ends of the sections, because I felt rushed. That alone is the difference between full ride and no financial help at all.
  3. I bombed one particular section. Basically, they give you a list of 6-8 items and tell you those items must be sorted into 2-3 columns with 6 or so rules about how you can do it. Ex: Adam, Brian, Charles, Derek, Ed, Fred, and Greg all go to the bar and purchase beers. The bar’s best sellers are Shocktop, Blue Moon, and Red Stripe, so the guys each try one of those. Each guy only drinks one beer. Brian and Ed choose the same beer. Adam and Greg choose different beers. Derek chooses Red Stripe. Two of the guys drink Blue Moon… and then they ask you 6 ish questions about which item falls into which column. I took what can only be described as a glacial pace at this. It wasn’t the I couldn’t answer the questions; it was that it took me twice as long as they gave me to answer each of these, so I ended up guessing quite a lot. I think my biggest problem was that I hadn’t seen a question like that in more than a decade, so I had to build a framework for each scenario and how to answer it, rather than just knowing what I needed to do to figure it out.
  4. Even on the reading comprehension section, I was pretty slow and didn’t finish, because they gave you like six ish really dense paragraphs to read… when I say really dense, I mean that it was the equivalent of reading Shakespeare. The sentence structures were out of control. The diction was out of control. The content was often specific to a field in which I had zero experience. And then, they would ask six questions, each of which took up about half a page, because they were wordy and ridiculous, as well. There were twenty four questions in this section, to be answered in 35 minutes. I didn’t finish.

So… what I’ve discovered is that I am smart enough to do this… but if I don’t hurry the hell up, I disqualify myself from scholarships just by not answering enough questions.


With the decision of whether to go to law school or not, I’ve tried talking to people about it in advance, because I’ve been described as impulsive, and because I want to be better about including others in the major life decisions I make… and what I’ve discovered is that there were very good reasons I did things without consulting others in the past – not the least of which being that so many people have been completely unreasonable in their responses.

So, here’s the deal:

Why am I thinking about doing this?

That’s a great question. I think this might be a perfect fit for me, or as close to a perfect fit as can actually exist. I think I might be good at practicing law, and I think I might find fulfillment in it.

Also, I hate wondering if I’ve wasted my life, and I think I might wonder if I don’t give this an honest effort.

Also, it hit me like a whisper from the Holy Spirit that I should do this. I’m not saying God definitely told me I should do this. He didn’t… but I think He may have pointed me in this direction, and I try to listen well when I think God is whispering to me.

Isn’t law school competitive and difficult?

That’s an insulting question. Are you implying that I’m not capable of succeeding in law school, or that I’m daunted by challenges? Are you implying that I shouldn’t attempt it because it difficult? Do you genuinely believe I don’t know that law school is competitive and difficult and you’re telling me something new?

Please don’t ask me a question like this.

Do I know what it’s like to try to get rid of student loan debt?

This might be a good question to ask me once I have my LSAT scores, have applied and been accepted, and have been denied scholarships. My slowness to decide on the right choice may be detrimental to me when test-taking, but I think it’s probably wise to take time on each step of this real-life decision, rather than racing ahead 5 years to the day when I’ll have to pay off student loan debt. I’d prefer to figure out whether I’m capable to getting this completely paid for before I give up because it’s so expensive… it may actually cost me nothing to do this. We won’t know until I apply.

Also, I don’t believe money should necessarily deter me, even if I don’t get any financial help with this. The value of seeking and eventually finding my niche isn’t really measurable, and if it were measurable, I suspect it would be worth more than $80,000.

Where are you going to live?

I don’t know. I haven’t even applied yet. There are three schools I’m currently considering applying to… so I don’t even know which city I’ll be in IF I get into any or all of the schools to which I’m planning to apply. Slow the hell down.

What if it doesn’t work out? What if I get there and it’s too hard or I don’t even get accepted?

…then it doesn’t work out. It’s okay to try things and fail. I’m not going to be crushed because I tried something hard and it didn’t work out. I won’t be crushed if I don’t get accepted. I may even just reapply again a year later. Who cares? Trying and failing costs me exactly $208 and a knock to my pride at this point. It’s succeeding that’s costly. A better question would be, “What if it works out?”



The Death of a Child, and My City

I met up with the two advocates I was going to be shadowing and the three of us made up Crisis Unit Adam 1. There was also a second group of three who made up Crisis Unit Adam 2, and the six of us went to a restaurant to await calls… or not.

I was a little afraid that we wouldn’t get a call, but then I felt guilty, as if I wanted someone to be a victim. Of course I didn’t want that; I just wanted an opportunity to see what I’d signed up to do. The other advocates assuaged my guilt by saying that there are always victims, whether the Victim Services teams are called or not, so wanting a call isn’t about wanting someone to be victimized; it’s about wanting victims to have support.

About five minutes into dinner, the call came. We were to relieve Baker unit on a DOA call (Deceased on Arrival) with a child victim.

There was a weight that came with going to a child’s death that was palpable, but mingled with a sense of, “This is what we do.”

We ate quickly, and the other advocates tried to prepare me. They let me know that I should feel free to step out if it was too difficult. They said that my well-being was a priority… and we hit the road.

When we arrived, we talked to the Baker Unit, who gave us the background on how the child passed away and some of the family dynamics, of which there were a ton – divorce and estrangement, medical issues, grandparents on both sides, and previous recent family deaths. I’m not sure how much I’m allowed to share, so I’m going to keep the details to myself, but I will tell you that, although the child’s death was unexpected, the cause did not seem to be homicide. Law enforcement procedurally treats all children’s deaths like homicides, but this particular death was most probably due to illness.

So… we couldn’t talk to the child’s dad, who was being interviewed by law enforcement. We couldn’t talk to mom, because of some crazy, crazy circumstances. We couldn’t talk to mom’s parents, because they left about the same time we arrived. Therefore, we went in and talked with the extended family on dad’s side.

There were probably 15-20 people there who said they were cousins. We introduced ourselves: “Hi. My name is Betsey. This is Claire and Katie. We’re with Victim Services, and we’re here to be of help to you. Our entire purpose in being here is to help you with whatever you need.”


You would think there would be tears. You would think the room would be filled with pandemonium. A child died. I had never met the child, and I felt pretty stirred up.

The family, however, was almost completely unemotional. It was odd. In discussing the call after-the-fact, one of the advocates pointed out that she thought the family probably distrusts law enforcement and also distrusted us. Although we aren’t with law enforcement, we look pretty official. I was just wearing normal clothes, but the other two had polos with badges sewn into them. They had ID card things, plus law enforcement took us into the room with the family and helped with the introduction, so it makes a lot of sense that people who don’t trust cops would want nothing to do with us. They politely, but coldly told us that they didn’t need anything, so we said we’d step into another room and just be there if they needed us.

And we waited.

And waited and waited.

Standing in a tiny, stuffy room for something like two hours. We interacted a bit with a hospital social worker whose primary task was to get hand prints of the child to later present to the family. I saw the person from the medical examiner’s office, who was there with a camera and stood around the corner from us, just outside the room with the body in it. There were two police officers sitting guard over the body. One of the family members came out and asked us if the family would be able to see the body one last time, but we didn’t know the answer. Evidently, the medical examiner can and sometimes does refused to let families see a body.

And that was the extent of what we did for two (maybe even three) hours.

Then, the detectives let us know they were done interviewing dad, and we could talk to him. We went out and talked to him, and he was also utterly unemotional. He was worried about his cell phone, because the detectives had kept it. Another family member stepped in and politely asked us if we could just give them our card and go, which we did.

It wasn’t what I expected. I’m not sure what I expected, and I can empathize with the unemotive response. It’s a lot to process, but the lack of chaos and (for lack of a better word) drama was something the other advocates kept coming back to. They thought it was pretty unusual.

And all I can really think about is how much I want to go on more calls. I don’t think we made much of any difference to this particular family, but I can definitely see how it might make a difference to someone else.

All night, we listened to the police radio. There were people doing crazy things… a lady who was hysterical because she couldn’t remember where she’d parked her car, a guy with a machete, a drug deal going down at the Redbox, another DOA that Crisis 2 attended, and a major incident with a guy with a gun at an apartment complex. I think all of those things stuck with me more than the call in which I participated, because that’s what my city is like. When I’m not receiving training in Victimology and Victim Services, those things are all going on, unbeknownst to me. They are occurring at locations I frequent. They are always occurring.

Right at the moment, I feel like I’m doing the right thing with my life. I feel like this could be my niche. Who knows how long it will last, or if I’ll even make it through training, but for now, I feel like I’ve found my element.


The Tribal Necessity

Soon after being elected to the leadership team of my teacher association, I was sent to Anaheim to learn things about being a leader. Coincidentally, although I’m not sure I believe in true coincidence, Sir Ken Robinson was a keynote speaker at the leadership summit. And, beyond being a man who understands education far better than most of my colleagues or I do, he is a man who understands the human drive to use our lives meaningfully and satisfyingly.

Upon returning home from the summit, I went out and purchased one of Sir Ken Robinson’s books, The Element, which, as the title suggests, is about human beings finding and living in their element. I honestly didn’t buy the book with any plan for it to impact my life. I bought it merely because that’s what I do: I buy books – more books than probably anyone you know. I certainly buy more books than I read, which is one of those quirks transferred to me through genetics or upbringing… or both.

I bought the book, shelved it, and went about my business. At the time, I had no plans of quitting my job for at least a year. My reign as secretary of the teacher association was to last three years, and, though I was skeptical about my ability to endure teaching for that long, I was certain I’d serve at least one year, and I intended to try to make it all three. In three years, I would have invested enough time into teaching to get an increased portion of Arizona State Retirement, so it made sense to serve my whole term.

And yet, the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry… I quit my job.

It’s a strange thing to explain to people why I quit, because it wasn’t a decision that I thought and prayed about, the way I think about pray about most life decisions. It was an intuition… sort of. It was a whisper from the Almighty. I’m a firm believer that God often nudges us and we often miss it. Therefore, there is a certain ineffable inkling I get sometimes that I attribute to God. Yes, that’s impressively touchy-feely and not at all practical. However, no amount of reasoning with me will convince me that God hasn’t provided me with moments of intentional, specific revelation, and in those moments, it seems appropriate to always, without question, reason, or delay, do exactly what I believe God has told me to do. I might be wrong… I might be justifying my own desires by attributing them to God, and yet, I hope that anytime you believe God has told you to do something… you will do it.

I wrote my letter of resignation without any sense of what I’d do to make money and pay my mortgage. The people around me expressed enthusiastic envy for my situation, which was humorous to me, because anyone who wants that situation need only walk into his boss’s office and say, “I’m done,” and yet, that’s not what people do.

I finished reading whatever book I was reading at the time, and decided to pull out my Sir Ken Robinson, and have a go at The Element. Beyond the book just being an excellent reminder that people are all unique and fascinating, it was exactly the book I needed to be reading.

As I reflect on my life and what the book has to say in regards to me, I don’t think I became a teacher because I was passionate about it. I think I did it because it was a practical way to be around books and language every day.

Chapter five is the one that brought me to this conclusion. It’s a chapter about finding your tribe. I know it sounds a little alternative and hippyish, but it hit me pretty hard. There are tons of bloggers out there (Seth Godin is one, I think) who deal with the idea of tribe, and it usually goes something like this: a tribe is a group of people who speak the same language, share values and beliefs, defend and nurture one another, and live life together. This idea of tribe is inclusive of families, religions, gangs, etc… One way Robinson describes the tribal sense is, “common commitment to the thing they [tribe members] feel they were born to do.”
I think everyone has felt this sense of tribe at one time or another. I can think of exactly two tribes to which I’ve thoroughly belonged in my life: the softball tribe and the church tribe. Of course, there are sub-tribes (as if that’s even a thing) within each of those tribes, and the feeling of connectedness hasn’t been 100% consistent for me, but when I’m speaking with someone who isn’t a part of the softball tribe, I always find myself trying to explain things that can’t be explained, and it’s that sense of separateness and aloneness that I think frequently leads people to depression. I think we were meant to connect with other human beings in this tribal sense – that a need to understand each other beyond explanation is built into our DNA.

I think I’ve been missing that. After quitting softball, I didn’t feel connected to anyone for quite awhile and I was depressed, and after my church dissolved, it was the same thing, only more intense… that longing for tribe. I wouldn’t have identified that as a root of my depression before, but it became clear to me as I was job searching and reading Robinson’s book.

Now, get ready for another impractical and somewhat impulsive idea. I think I should go back to school and study creative writing. I’ve resisted this idea in the past because I’d probably have to take out student loans in addition to working full-time while going back to school. Additionally, a masters degree in creative writing isn’t the kind of thing that gets a girl jobs. It’s one of those degrees that in many ways seems useless.

And yet, I think my sanity and sense of contentment require it. There is currently only one person who gets my love of story. One. And she’s moved away.

I reserve the right to completely change my mind tomorrow, but, for today, I plan to set myself on a path of MFA in creative writing.

The Day My Dreams Came True

There I was, standing opposite an enormous, roided-out teenage boy, who was trying to hit me with a ball…

*Disclaimer: I don’t actually know whether the kid takes steroids; all I know is that he is a big dude.

So, basically, I’ve always wanted to put together a teacher dodge ball team to participate in the tournament at the high school where I teach. It’s a grand affair, and the students take it far too seriously. They always put together some sort of team uniform/costume – usually with little regard for the school dress code. Some of the teams practice. All of them move insanely fast, as if dodging bullets instead of balls… Matrix-style, of course.

Teachers, sadly, are not the most athletic of people, and, despite the numerous humiliations they suffer daily on their jobs, none are too enthusiastic about putting themselves into a situation where lots of people would see them get hit with balls. However, with them knowing that this is my last year at IRHS, I was able to put a team together.

The team consisted of me, the tall, young, athletic History teacher who coaches soccer and runs in his free time, the doesn’t-know-how-old-he-is trash-talking Calc. teacher, the super-hero-obsessed and admittedly-unathletic Bio. teacher who played as a favor to me in spite of getting the flu just days before the tournament, the youth leader and thin, but uncoordinated English teacher who had no business being out there (I wouldn’t have asked had I known how embarrassing her throw really is), and the 4-ft tall Spanish teacher who didn’t even show up.

So… our first match was against a team called Swoll (or possibly Swole – it means uber buff) Team 6. They were all football players with arms the size of my thighs. In between matches, they did push-ups because they promised their coach they wouldn’t let the tournament put them behind in training… even though football doesn’t start again until like August or September. They played in red, white, blue, and various military-style gear, such as ammo vests, boots, etc…

And they wrecked us in the first game. However, the matches went to the best of two out of three, so we had another shot.

It went down to me and the History teacher against two teenagers pretty quick. I managed to get one of the enormous teens out with a well-timed throw, but the History teacher went down at exactly the same time, so…

there I was, standing opposite an enormous, roided-out teenage boy, who was trying to hit me with a ball…

After all of the balls ended up on my side of the court, I gathered them together, got one in each hand, and went for it. I honestly didn’t even get close to him with three consecutive throws. I back-pedaled, thinking I was ready for anything, and he launched one at me that I did not dodge Matrix-style… I stood there, bewildered, as it hit me directly in the chest without me even making one movement.

And yet, that tournament made my dreams come true.

After running a marathon in a few weeks, I intend to get a team together for the Tucson Dodge Ball League. Who’s with me?!

Ragnar 2015 and How I Tore My Pants :-)

Okay, so I’ve been slacking on my blogging duties of late. I promise I have several good excuses, though.

First and foremost, I’ve not had a weekend to myself for a bit, and I don’t have the interwebs at home. This is the first solid chunk of time I’ve had to myself since Valentine’s Day. I totally don’t say it like that to make you sad for me. I honestly don’t even remember what I did on Valentine’s Day, so it couldn’t have been all that bad.

So… since the V-Day, I ran Ragnar 2015, which is my new favorite Ragnar I’ve ever run. Mostly, I enjoyed running a respectable distance without suffering very much.

Also, I ate it pretty hard, which hasn’t happened to me in at least a decade.

Basically, I was on my second run of the race. It was nighttime, maybe like 8 or 9 p.m. and I had 7.8 miles to run. I started off pretty slow, and several jackasses blew past me. I knew I’d eventually run a few of them down, because they were mostly dudes, and their egos frequently get them into trouble on a race like Ragnar.

There was one dude in particular who blew by me, and slowed way down about a half-mile ahead of me.

So I did what you do in Ragnar. I hunted him. Slowly.

It took me something like three miles to catch him. He looked relatively fit, which always makes the triumph all the greater. The problem was that right around the time I intended to leave him behind for good, we starting hitting the stop lights. So I’d leave him behind, and then he’d catch me at the light. Then, he’d blow across the intersection like a bat out of hell, because men who aren’t runners, but who run are like that. In about 5 minutes, I’d pass him again, and then I’d run into the next red light.

We continued on in that annoying pattern for something like 3 more miles.

And I was pissed.

When we finally hit a spot where there were no lights in sight, I took off. I even passed another dude soon after that because I was so highly motivated. In Ragnar, you call it a kill when you pass anyone, so I was feeling pretty good about my 2 kills. I could hear the sounds of the exchange in the distance. I was enjoying the run, feeling like a barbarian in the night…

and I don’t even know what happened, but I ate it. Hard.

I hit my right knee first, then both hands, then my left knee.

Then my left calf cramped up like nobody’s business, so I shot both of my legs into the air and went into happy baby pose, trying to get my calf to calm the hell down.

That’s when my second kill came up to me.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah. I’m good,” I told him, still lying on my back with my feet in the air. He looked at me with severe pity.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I’m just going to sit here for a minute.”

He left, and I struggled with my calf some more.

Then, I saw him. The jackass I’d hunted for a solid 6 miles… that’s an hour of the race. He was at least a quarter-mile back, but there was no way I was letting him have the victory.

I jumped up off my ass, and starting sprinting as fast as I could. My left calf wasn’t protesting as much as I’d anticipated, the right knee of my pants was def. ripped, and there was some blood, but my left knee didn’t start to bruise for at least an hour after the fall. Also, kill #2 was up ahead and I had every intention of deleting his zombie kill on me from my record, by returning the favor.

“Sorry, man. That was embarrassing,” I said as I passed him once again.

He just shook his head as I ran past.

I sprinted across the final intersection and into the exchange, where I slapped our bracelet onto Shirley’s wrist, but I was dumbfounded when she didn’t move.

“I can’t go,” she said.

“What? Why?”

“There’s an accident up ahead. They aren’t letting any runners out.”

So as my two kills caught us yet again, I tried to keep my broken heart to myself. They trotted into the exchange, and their teammates got to leave at the same time mine did, in spite of my ridiculous efforts to improve us from 9,083 rd place in the race to 9,081 st (I made up those numbers).

Regardless, I got to feel like quite the badass, and I’m looking forward to my next race.

Red Dead Redemption with Katie: Part 2

Spoilers imminent! Get out while you can!

So, it turns out the Marshall only really helped me by connecting me with some guy named something West Dickens. He’s supposedly going to help me get inside the walls of the fort where my bounty nemesis (I believe his name is Bill Williamson) hangs out.

However, after helping West Dickens for awhile, he basically told me that I’d need to get some guy named Seth to also help. Additionally, West Dickens kept persuading me to help him earn $ by selling some magical, but not-so-magical, ointment that solves all physical and mental ailments. Eventually, some townsfolk got angry with him, and we had to jump on his cart and get chased out of town with men on horseback following us. I rode shotgun, of course. After that, I rode in some horse races, and seem to have earned enough $ for West Dickens to help me.

Next, I went and talked to Seth, who is crazy. He’s uber-thin, like Gollum, and he climbs into graves, searching dead people for half of a map. After something like four missions of helping him with the map and finding a treasure that turned out to be nothing more than a treasure chest with a glass eye inside of it, he finally agreed to help me. However, he told me that we couldn’t get the job done unless I got some guy named Irish to help too.

Finally, I went to Irish, who is a drunken sod, and misled me more than once. With him, I was trying to get a’hold of a machine gun. After a storming a mine filled with hostiles, and several other adventures, I thought I was pretty close to getting Irish on my side, but then his contact for the ammo for our gun was being held captive, and I had to get him out. I got him out, and we got the ammo. Then, it was Irish and me driving the ammo out of there on a cart, being chased by bad guys, when I died.

I honestly don’t die very often in this game, so it angered me a little bit.

I reloaded from the last checkpoint, which left me getting onto the wagon with Irish, just before the bad guys started chasing us.

Problem: the game reloaded with us inside the complex with the ammo, and the gate wasn’t open this time. And I couldn’t open the gate. And Irish kept yelling at me every time I walked away from the cart to try to open the gate.

So I gave up and watched a movie instead.

Next time…