Outside on the curb, the aftermath was a study in profound, visceral shock. Parents sat on the pavement, their bodies wracked by uncontrollable tremors, their festive clothing stained with the grim reality of the struggle to save their young.
Many stared with hollow, unblinking eyes at the house they had just fled—the very place where, minutes earlier, they had been joined in a chorus of singing and laughter. The neighborhood was now a cacophony of emergency response. Sirens wailed with a mournful persistence, and the rhythmic, strobing pulse of red and blue lights washed over the faces of those who remained. Yet, despite the mechanical noise of the city’s response, nothing could drown out the raw, primal cries of those who were slowly coming to the realization that someone they loved—a child, a friend, a neighbor—was not among the survivors.
