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The screams made the hairs on my neck stand to attention. I knew this feeling. It was the same one as in Palestine, in Hebron, years before, when a group of Palestinian teenage boys came barreling down the compact street with the overhanging shades that made the thoroughfare seem that much tighter; the Israeli soldiers followed soon after, their large guns being the first thing my eyes noticed. And it was that same feeling again, later on in al-Arroub, when a tear gas canister was shot over my head. Throughout each incident, my body remained rigid and alert—much as it was doing now.

Here, in a , the screams, an argument between two men, could have only lasted a few seconds, some 20 yards away from me, out of my line of sight. Even a day later, the hairs are standing up as I type these words.

“$9.95? That’s bullshit!” And then a gunshot. It sounded much different than I’d expected. Loud but dull, not piercing. I was still near the entrance, having just walked in. I made my way quickly, calmly across the street and immediately dialed 911. “There’s been a shooting at the Whole Foods on H Street, corner of H and 6th.”

Some other shoppers and I warned people away from going into the store, as we waited for help. People were still coming out—rushed, harried, scared. A minute or two went by since I’d called the police, but they had yet to arrive. On seeing people standing—not running—inside, I decided to go back in, and found an employee to inform him that I had some first-aid training. He didn’t hear me at first, did a double take, and then asked, “First aid?” “Yes,” I replied.

And yet, despite all that, I had—and have, still—doubt.

He escorted me toward the back of the store and up the stairs by the bar in the rear. I had been here just a few weeks before—a place that had recently made for a nice spot for a drink with a friend now had blood spattered every five to 10 yards. Bright red, much brighter than in the movies. The employee took me to the back offices. Two cops had also arrived, and were just a few feet behind me. The victim was a small, black man, maybe 23 or 24 years old. His shirt was off and his pants were around his knees. He was sitting up, conscious, on the floor, supported by two employees, who had a hand under each arm. There was blood all over his chest and abdomen; I could see the bullet hole in the left side of his chest. He was coughing up blood. Some of it had congealed on his chin, still bright red.

Having only the most basic of first-aid training—and expired at that—I had been trained to get out of the way as soon as someone with more experience, which would’ve been just about anyone, arrived on the scene. Wanting to make sure that that was the case before I left, I asked one of the police officers, “Do you have first-aid training?” “No,” he said. He started to ask the two employees holding the victim to move him. “Are you sure you want to move him?” I asked, thinking that it’d be a bad idea to do so. Before I could clarify, more cops entered, adding to the bedlam. One had a large gun, just like the Israeli soldiers.

Organized chaos followed. Police: “Where has he been shot? Where did the shooter go? What car was he driving?” Employees: “It was a red Honda. He’s been shot in the chest and face. I have the license plate. The video cameras are this way.”

Mercifully, thankfully, the EMT soon arrived. I quickly exited, and walked back past the various splatters of blood, this time being screamed at by the police not to step in them. “I got it,” I thought, irritated.

Outside, various bystanders were contributing to the usual mix of banal, ridiculous, and errant statements people tend to offer when they’re near something like this. But then, in three separate, unrelated instances among the din:“I hope George Soros wasn’t behind this. You know, he’s always trying to destabilize.” “Sir, thank you for carrying my daughter out.” “Well, you know, if the employees had guns… ”

Soros? Really? Please stop. To the man who carried a stranger’s daughter to safety, you’re a hero. But to the man who thinks that the employees should have guns, let’s think about this.

I went in calm, controlled, aware of my surroundings—ready to make decisions, despite my skyrocketing heart rate and soaring adrenaline. I’ve performed two active drowning rescues, and have done an at-depth body search in murky water. All of those experiences were terrifying, partly because I would’ve been held responsible if someone had died. So what I’m saying, in this case, is that on the bell curve of knowing how to react to sudden trauma, I ranked at, “This is familiar. I know how to handle myself.”

And yet, despite all that, I had—and have, still—doubt. Keep in mind that these events unfolded incredibly quickly. As I write this, it’s been just over 24 hours since the incident, and I’m replaying everything: Did he really say, “$9.95? That’s bullshit!” before shooting the gun? I’m not sure, but that’s what it sounded like. Did I check that the scene was safe, as we’d been instructed to do in first-aid training? Somewhat, but I’d also made assumptions because of how rapidly things were unfolding, because someone might have been severely injured, and because the police hadn’t arrived. Did I say “medical training” or “first aid” to the police officer? I can’t remember exactly, and the ambiguity could have changed the officer’s response, subsequently saving what might have been precious seconds before applying pressure to the wound.

Now, imagine that I’m an employee with a gun, maybe even an employee with 10 years of gun certification instead of first-aid training, and imagine I’d remained just as calm. Could I reliably decide, with the speed that might’ve been necessary, to pull the trigger? Could I have ensured that I wouldn’t have shot the wrong person or injured a bystander, like that woman’s young daughter or the man who had protected her in the crossfire?

Do you really want me to make that call?