Sarah parked on to the right side of the street, in front of a small house with a chain-link-fenced yard. She blew the horn, and shortly after, her friend -- complete with worrying-to-a-14-year-old shaved head and tattoos -- came out with a sweater in his hand. Sarah introduced me, I nodded, and sat idly by as they talked about school, how this one b***h was acting like a b***h, and other notable world events. I stopped paying attention.

And then there were gunshots. I started paying attention again.

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It's a sound that tends to focus your thoughts.

I looked over to the driver's side and Sarah's friend had disappeared. Sarah had thrown herself over the parking brake between our seats and, figuring that was as good a reaction as any, I decided do the same. I didn't exactly know what was happening, but I knew that I had to make myself very small, very quickly. Then, like the funny guy in a war movie who you just know isn't going to make it, Sarah threw herself over me. Everything went quiet.

Sarah desperately started to twist the keys in the ignition. She began to hyperventilate, but finally managed to bring the car to life and peel out. Before we turned the corner, a woman came out of her house with a cordless phone, and waved us down. Sarah slammed on the brakes and attempted to explain what had just happened, and why we were fleeing in terror, but only sobs and wild gibberish came out. The woman with the cordless phone just stood wide-eyed and perplexed on her front porch, until Sarah once again hit the gas pedal and we tore out of the neighborhood.

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In retrospect, it should've been pretty clear from context what she was trying to say.

Sarah found a random freeway ramp and took it, then an off-ramp into an unfamiliar neighborhood. She flung her car door open and began to pace around the car, mumbling and cursing at every bullet hole she found. (We would later learn that there were 10 spent bullets in total, most of which went clean through the car.) Sarah was mostly worried about how angry her mom would be, and kept screaming, "How am I going to hide the bullet holes?!" Not "Holy s**t, we almost just got killed," but "Holy s**t, my mom is gonna kill me."

"Could this day have gone any worse?!"

When I got out of the car and closed the door, the window shattered. That didn't ease Sarah's panic -- a bullet hole might go overlooked for a second, but missing windows were a dead giveaway. That's when I realized that the bullet hole that broke that window was exactly where my head had been before I ducked.

Pro-tip: Cops don't much appreciate guesswork. Clearly annoyed, he asked me again what I had seen. I told him I saw a couple of shaved brown heads, but I couldn't remember if their car was dark grey, silver, or brown. He grew even more impatient: "So, you're telling me that you just got shot at and you didn't even see who shot at you?!" I can't remember if I verbally answered him or not, but I know I at least nodded before I resumed picking almost-my-head glass out of my hoodie.

The officers did try their best to lighten the mood, but their efforts only made everything even more tense and awkward.

"So what, are you two like a couple of gangbangers or something?"

"You two ever been in the back of a cop car? Probably not the first time for a couple of gangbangers like you, huh?"

"Oh, so one of you is from NorCal? Bet you see a lot of drive-by shootings out there, huh?"

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When you still have tinnitus from gunfire, it tends to drown out most punchlines.

Granted, there isn't a comedy portion on the police exam, but here's a tip: When in doubt, maybe just don't.

At some point, the dispatcher got confused and began describing us as the suspects. Apparently, a witness saw us fleeing the scene and thought we were the shooters. Of course, the officers practicing their improv on us knew we weren't the suspects, but they did use this as an opportunity to make even more jokes about our situation. I remember faking a lot of smiles and just looking out the window at all the people driving past, staring at us.

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"Don't worry. One day, you'll look back on this and laugh ... while crying ... in a therapist's office."

The cops eventually let us go, and I mean that literally. After fleeing for our lives down a multitude of random freeway ramps and side streets, we were kicked out of the backseat and left to our own devices in an unfamiliar neighborhood in East LA. It's also important to note that this was pre-GPS, so it took us hours to find our way back home.