I was supposed to come home on Saturday.
The Friday flight had opened only because another passenger canceled, and I changed my reservation while standing beside a Nashville airport coffee kiosk with a paper cup cooling in my hand.
At 6:41 p.m., I unlocked my front door outside Raleigh and rolled my suitcase across the tile.
That timestamp stayed on my phone because the changed-flight confirmation was still open.
Later, it would become one of the cleanest facts in a night full of people trying to soften ugly things with softer words.
I had spent five days helping open a distribution center for the medical supply company I managed.
It was the kind of trip that left the smell of burnt coffee in your jacket and a vibration in your bones from warehouse equipment, rental cars, and too many hours under fluorescent lights.
