Living and breathing in the Second City
From yesterday’s Tribune:
With her six children and husband tucked into bed, Yee Moua was watching TV in her living room just after midnight when she heard voices — faint at first, then louder. Then came the sound of a window shattering.
Moua bolted upstairs, where her husband, Vang Khang, grabbed his shotgun from a closet, knelt and fired a warning shot through his doorway as he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. He let loose with two more blasts. Twenty-two bullets were fired back at him, by the family’s count.
“It’s the police! Police!” his sons yelled.
Khang, a Hmong immigrant with shaky command of English, set down his gun, raised his hands and soon was on the floor.
The gunmen were a police SWAT team that had raided the wrong address because of bad information from an informant.
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
-Carl Sandburg
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