I've been thinking about that time. I could've died, along with many others. And when I thought about it some more, I realized, I had died, and with many others as well. It hadn't happened to me, personally -- maybe the device was faulty, or "they" had simply forgotten to press the detonator, or maybe the man had a daughter that he'd meant to give the anklet to and it happened to look just like the bomb -- but it had happened to others.

And that shook me.

They would kill hundreds, thousands, millions, and for what?

For what?

And the children who were never born from those who died, what about them? I remembered, suddenly, a sentence from a book: "When you kill a man, you kill a world of people who were never born."

How many people died through the death of a single person?

I didn't want to know.

A/N: I've returned to this short story, not because I've intended to continue with a plot that isn't there, but because I've been thinking, is there actually anyone like my fictional Katie Tullman? Have any of the unwitting children ever survived?

I'll never know, will I?