Never forget

"Everybody's been talking about you," she said, sidling up to my newsroom desk.

"They are?" I asked, curiosity and a sliver of fear running down to my tailbone. What did I do now?

"Yeah," said the grey-haired editor who'd been at it since she was 16 or so. "You did a great job on that story Monday."

That story about a 13-year-old girl struck and killed before sunrise.

"I did?" I said. "Well, thanks."

That story about teenage adventure, sneaking out, testing waters, that ended in tragedy.

"When I left for the day, the story looked completely different," she said. "You really added that personal touch. It was worth the 1A."

That story that could've been ours, except we made it out of the adolescent risks and rebellion alive.

###

I made the block the first time around, barely slowing past the sad white house to glimpse the number on the mailbox.

I parked in the grass across the street, made it onto the dusty porch and pressed the doorbell. No buzz, no chime echoed inside. I knocked twice, relieved almost that no one had come to the door. They pulled into the driveway as I turned to leave and invited me inside.

The story and tears unraveled on a stool in the kitchen. The friend who made it out alive had red-rimmed eyes and smudged eyeliner. More tears from another friend seated in a plastic chair in the side yard.

Back in the office, I plugged in the "personal touch" with smudged eyeliner. The back story. The quotes. The thick description. The double byline for my troubles.

I will think about those girls for long, long time. Soon they will be added to the tragedies that've piled themselves on the center my chest these past few years, released in words on deadline. And I will never forget their names.