“You don’t know what I’ve been through,” he screamed at me.

“I don’t know what YOU’VE been through?!” I rolled my eyes, pissed. “Want to hear my story? What about the 13 other people besides you and I, what of their stories? Every single one of us knows what you’ve been through! Your situation is not unique!”

He stared at me in stony silence. I looked into his young face, into his dark eyes, as I fought back more of my retort.

His shoulders sagged slightly as he looked back into my eyes. They had grown softer than before.

When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “You didn’t know her. You didn’t have to see what happened to her after the bite. You didn’t comfort her and watch her cry. You didn’t do everything you could for her. You didn’t hold her while she fell asleep. You didn’t…didn’t have to shoot her when she woke up.”

I fought back a tear. Every story was horrible. But now was not the time for weakness. I had to ask. “Who was she?”

“Sarah. She was 8. She was my daughter.”

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