“An iced tea and a glazed doughnut.” It was only nine, but the air was already thick and heavy. I needed the cold drink. I needed the doughnut, too, and I watched greedily as the woman behind the counter speared it with tongs, wrapped it in waxed paper, and handed it over. I wolfed down half of it in the store. A smooth, comforting sweetness coated the inside of my mouth. The woman behind the counter smiled as if we’d just shared a secret pleasure. A rack of newspapers stood outside, and I scanned the headlines as I walked out. Medicare reductions, a Congressional logjam, Mideast problems. Nothing about the sniper. Or Daria Flynn’s death. In fact, the State Police were being remarkably tight-lipped, refusing to talk about the weapon used or what they’d recovered from the scene. At first their silence triggered a flurry of media analysis, second-guessing, and editorials bemoaning the tragic and unpredictable nature of violence. But a week had now passed with no new incidents, and a week is a century in media parlance.
