I will always remember the sound: The shrill pitch. Anguish. Utter loss. It must be twenty-five years ago now. Still, a shiver runs down my spine, makes the hair stand on the back of my neck, goose pimples raise on my arms. I have to set my jaw to keep the teeth from chattering. Sudden tears cloud the vision.

I was at work one day. It was the afternoon. A workday afternoon like any other. A coworker got a phone call. A preteen boy, his best friend, a gun in the house, a mother’s scream frozen in time.