Friday night in Clay County didn’t arrive like a headline. It arrived like every other night—phones on chargers, kids in pajamas, someone washing a plate because the sink “couldn’t sit overnight.” By midnight, though, the county would be counting bodies across three locations, and the name everyone whispered would be a name people had said at cookouts and church doors: Daricka Moore, 24.

I’m not law enforcement. I’m not a reporter. I’m the person who still had to show up to work the next morning, because rent doesn’t pause for tragedy.

I clock in at a small place where everyone knows everyone—where “How’s your mama?” isn’t small talk, it’s a check-in. That Saturday, my manager texted before sunrise: “Come in if you can. If you can’t, don’t.” That’s how you know it’s bad.

The first thing I noticed on the drive wasn’t the police lights. It was the absence of traffic. Usually, someone is already out—gas station coffee, a truck heading to a job site, a kid being dropped at a cousin’s house.

That morning the roads felt like the world had pulled its breath in and refused to exhale.

The second thing was how fast rumors moved. Faster than the speed limit.

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