Neighbors will remember the sound first: a rapid, cracking burst that didn’t match the rhythm of the music. Then came the screams, a mother’s voice ripping through the air as she searched for her child, and the wail of sirens stacking one over another. What had been a backyard of balloons and folding tables became a maze of evidence markers, shattered plastic cups, and stuffed toys lying facedown in the grass.

By nightfall, Stockton’s streets were lined with candles, flowers, and stunned faces lit by phone screens streaming the news. Officials spoke of motives and suspects, but families whispered the names of the dead, clutching photos from happier birthdays. Parents held their children tighter, knowing there was no easy way to explain how a place of cake and candles turned into a scene of irreversible loss—and how, tomorrow, that yard will still smell faintly of smoke and frosted sugar.