Iwas in sixth grade when it happened. I was on a school bus with my classmates, headed for a spring trip to Santa Fe, New Mexico. At a midday lunch stop in a dusty restaurant somewhere between here and there, they had a little television mounted behind the counter. Long before the advent of smartphones, that small TV became our window into horror: images of Columbine High School, soaked in blood and saturated with tragedy, rolled across the screen.

My house was 15 minutes from Columbine in the south Denver suburbs. I had walked those halls, playing hide-and-seek with my friends when we lost interest in the high school basketball games our dads had dragged us to. And now, in that anonymous roadside diner, I watched those same hallways turned into a crime scene. My young, innocent mind coul

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