It’s been four days since Atticus was killed. It’s been hard to pull myself out each day but I do it. I still have deadlines. I still have a conflict to cover. I’m shocked by how easily I return to form once I’m out the door. My mind compartmentalizes Atticus and drives me forward as if I never knew him.
I’ve experienced this before with contacts I’ve had, but Atticus was different. We’d become close friends. I know his children and wife by name. He knew mine. It was the first time I’d felt like I had a partner in the field.
So to shut him from my thoughts so easily leaves me feeling dirty and heartless. I know it’s simply survival, but to know and to accept are two completely different things. I must find a way to honour his memory.
Tomorrow I visit his family. I am helping evacuate them to family across the border. I haven’t seen them since I broke the news.