August 25, 2000. Being too broke to get cable, we spent our summer with The Channel. We could tell you every lineup for ABC Channel 5 and 10, Calumet and Marquette. We followed the local news like a cult. We knew that the old news anchor's glasses were fake, just so he could look older. We knew that the old sports' guy's girlfriend became pregnant with their child and they fled to Vegas for a shotgun wedding. We knew too much. It was late one Thursday evening and the late news was on. The sports guy was rambling incoherently about local sports when the words "Howard Gairy, Huskies football player, dead...shot to the chest...more later..." ripped through the screen. The living room began to disappear as I reevaluated what had just been said. "Howard Gairy"... "shot and killed"... "dead."       "Jesus Christ! That was my student!" I screamed violently into the humid summer air.       "What? When? Was that the guy from Canada?" Jeff asked.       "Yeah. Shit!" I turned away from the TV and tried not to cry. It made no sense why I would cry, he was just a student. Just one out of 120 I'd had during the past year. Howard stopped coming to class after sixth week (after telling me that in Jamaica I would have the perfect body and would be considered beautiful). I gave him an F (even though the "beautiful" comment tried to sway me). He called from Canada, his home, after finals and asked why I had failed him. He was angry. He was yelling. I tried to explain. He tried to explain how he would lose his football scholarship if he failed. I went through the books, and through them again, 59.6%. I agonized. Being a graduate teaching assistant wasn't supposed to come with so much responsibility. I didn't want to ruin his life. I decided to round up and give him a D. I thought I could save him. I thought I could give him a chance to stay in school, to be successful. I knew I could save him. Turns out nothing could. He died in a bar brawl in Toronto. One shot to the chest. Dead on arrival.