Of all the mornings of high school, one in particular stands out because of its silence. A dead silence in which no one even whispered. Still bodies sitting in still seats. Teachers shoes pattered across the tile floor as they handed out notices for our parents and told us how we could get in touch with guidance counselors. They told us to take it easy.

In the second floor hallway, the art display was taken from the case and the dead boy's skateboard was placed inside, draped with one of his hoodies. A picture, brought in by his mother, sat on the shelf. How could she cope?

He had just graduated. He'd gone out with friends. People say he picked up a bottle – more than one – but he didn't drive. His friend did. Not that it did him much good. The driver was drunk and survived, lost in a coma for days, only to wake up and have to deal with the consequences of his guilt, a court date, and a prison sentence.

Silence – meant to mourn the death of one – really mourned the end of two lives. How could the driver possibly go on? I don't know. I heard no more about him. He faded into the crowds of the world, never to graduate with his class, never to go to college. In a small town, people don't like to talk about these things.