![]() ![]() ![]() Helplessly fighting for composure, I asked a coworker to cancel my meeting. “I’m coming home,” I said, panic numbing my spine. But the coat was gone, and Tom was frantic. Tom’s voice was hoarse with fear as he told me he’d hung up with Nate and ripped the house apart looking for Dylan’s trench coat, irrationally convinced that if he could find it, Dylan was fine. They weren’t in bowling this morning, either.” “But I know all the kids who wear black coats, and the only ones I can’t find are Dylan and Eric. “I don’t want to alarm you,” he’d said to Tom. There was more: Nate had said the shooters had been wearing black trench coats, like the one we’d bought for Dylan. I struggled to understand what Tom was telling me: Nate, Dylan’s best friend, had called Tom’s home office minutes before to ask, “Is Dylan home?” A call like that in the middle of the school day would have been alarming enough, but the reason for Nate’s call was every parent’s worst nightmare come to life: gunmen were shooting at people at Columbine High School, where Dylan was a senior. ![]() The scrambled words pouring out of him in staccato bursts made no sense: “gunman. Tom came back on the line, finally, but my ordinarily steadfast husband sounded like a madman. There was only static and indecipherable television noise on the other end. ![]() “What’s happening?” I screamed into the receiver. ![]()
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