The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon in Stockton, casting long, golden shadows across a residential street that, only hours earlier, had been vibrant with the sounds of a celebration. It was supposed to be a day defined by the milestones of childhood—the sticky sweetness of frosting, the crinkle of wrapping paper, and the high-pitched chorus of a birthday song. Instead, the neighborhood was transformed into a landscape of yellow police tape and the rhythmic, haunting pulse of emergency lights. The tragedy that unfolded during what should have been a sacred rite of passage left four people dead...
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