It's the bullet from the window.

The nausea as he sinks to the ground, the blood dribbling down his chest, the fearful screams echoing in his ears.

It's the bomb under the SUV.

The nausea as she flips into the air, the blood dribbling down her face, the acrid smell of scorched flesh in her nose.

It's the fireworks in the sky.

The patterns of colors, the booming explosions, the excited screams echoing in his ears, the acrid smell of scorched barbecue in her nose.

The feeling of their hands intertwined as they celebrate.

The shared pain as they remember.