I normally follow the wires at work. It's part of my job, but I'm also a voyeur. Reading about other people's problems and situations makes me more comfortable with my own.

But on Tuesday I was too busy. Between helping out on some special projects and the regularly scheduled program, I didn't check the wires once. It's a good thing. I'm not sure how I would have coped if I were to see the story come across.

In a month, I will get my first reporting experience at a real newspaper. One of my first jobs will be to write stories like the one for Kevin and Chauntal. It's not as though this was the first time an accident like theirs has ever happened. Some asshole is always in a hurry. He will eventually pass a semi where he should not pass, and he will force a car of loved ones into its path.

I'll arrive at the scene clutching a notebook, and determine whether the semi "hit," "collided with" or "broadsided" the victims. I'll ask the police how far the car was dragged. I'll call the department of transportation and ask how long the road is going to be closed. "Three hours? Thank you, sir. Have a great day!"

These are the choices I have made: I have left my friends, and I have chosen to write about death. All I can do is walk the streets with my hands outstretched and ask God why. Why have I made these choices? What is to become of them?