It started on a perfect night, well, actually morning.

When you work something of a swing shift, day and night are a little more subjective, and offers a little daylight to do things I like instead of following a tight routine.

Sixteen years ago today, the morning started as it ought, mostly, and ended in a way I couldn’t have described. The day went from an argument with my daughter to eight hours among inmates and a chapter that was difficult to accept. My 18-year-old daughter was in an accident and did not come home.

I’ve talked about this before in different formats. Why talk about...