I grew up in Blacksburg, Virginia, a town of winding mountain roads, beautiful national forests, the cold New River for lazy tubing on warm summer days. My dad was a professor at the university there, Virginia Tech, and every summer when the students left and the town emptied out, the quiet streets filled with ghostly echoes and I loved it. I felt like I owned the place.
When the call came about gunshots at Virginia Tech, I was a graduate student in St. Louis, grinding away at my Ph.D. in immunology. My housemate was on the line, his voice shaking, telling me to turn on the news and was my dad OK? I dialed my father’s cell phone, and he answered immediately and cheerfully, perplexed by my call. He was…
