She returns to her apartment on the corner of Broadway and 21st street. It's been a long day, as Tuesdays always are. The phone conversation she had with her brother over the weekend is still keeping her happy. Her brother reminded her that both of them should continue to strive for their ideals, regardless of some idiots whom they have no choice but to share their lives with. She feels secure about herself.
Her blackberry rings and the screen shows the name of her brother's housemate. She is a bit surprised, but happy to hear from him.
"Hi! How are you?," she sings pleasantly.
He seems to be having some difficulty. "Hey, Liz. Your brother ........."
She only hears what she wants to hear. "Oh wow. How did he attempt it? Is he okay? Where is he now? At the hospital?"
Clearly, her response distresses him even further. "No. He's ........."
She gets confused. After a quick process of elimination, which ends with her crossing out the option of "is he joking?," she realizes there is only one thing that this could mean. The finality of the situation buckles her down to her knees. "I need to hang up, I'll call you back later," she says apologetically.
She stays kneeled on the bedroom floor for a while. She doesn't know what she's supposed to be doing. Her mind is racing, but by now, it has already shut down on her. Autopilot mode, conditioned by her habits, instincts, and sense of responsibility, is dictating her thoughts. Maybe tell somebody else? Maybe her parents? But they are in Korea.
She remembers that the the battalion commander is required to send up reports to her ROTC cadre on these news. She turns on her computer, opens up her gmail, and begins to compose an email titled, "Report on death in cadet's family." She addresses it to the PMS, cc's the master sergeant, and bcc's her battalion XO. Oddly enough, the detachment gives her comfort. It's as though this is all happening to somebody else.
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