In a backyard somewhere far outside of Boston, a mass of brothers surrounded what I presumed was a dead body. I was overwhelmed with their feelings of concern, grief, and sadness. I was paralyzed by their anger, hostility, and unadulterated rage, which I knew would shortly be turned on me. Sean had to physically drag me behind him as I dug in my heels—that was one angry mob I had no intention of cozying up to. The closer we got, the harder it was to breathe. Their emotions were oppressive, clamping down on my lungs like tiny vices hellbent on preventing inflation. My skin crawled as my adrenaline spiked—I wanted to flee. Instead, I was thrust into the center of the emotional melee and smack dab into a bloody crime scene. My eyes fixed on the victim immediately, more accurately his chest; it was still moving. “He's not dead,” I blurted out with the tact of a five-year-old. I was expecting a corpse, not a soon-to-be one. “Looks like you’re losing your touch, Bitch,”
