This is not a story of a nameless survivor of war, and nameless refugees, whose stereotypical images we see in our newspapers and our TV with tattered clothes, dirty face, scared eyes.

Enough of the daily terror of gun violence in homes and streets that's claimed the lives of women and young black men in staggering proportions.

We were trained to dodge, to wait, to cower and cover, to wait more, still, wait.

On top of the constant, perpetual grief I was terrified that I would run into a family member of someone Dylan had killed, or be accosted by the press or by an angry citizen.