It was 9:30 AM. I was in Charleston, South Carolina. The people I cared most about in the world were in Augusta and Atlanta, Georgia. All worked at US government facilities which would be high on any nut job’s list of shit to blow up. Predictably, none were actually at their desks.

I left a half-frantic voice mail for my eldest sister. “Hi. Still in Charleston. If you’re still at work, do me two favors: go home, and then call me and tell me where Mom is.”

My own fruitless calls were sandwiched between my husband’s and those of the couple we were staying with, all of whom had family and friends in D.C. When their efforts were met with fast busy signals, the sign of a communications infrastructure taxed beyond all reasonable expectations, I experienced a bond with my fellow humans unlike anything I’ve ever known. Across the country, and indeed the entire world, people were trying to reach their families.

Five numb hours later, all of my family had checked in. I could safely begin to wrap my mind around the initial damage; I could think of all those whose families would not be checking in. I could think of how most of the damage from this attack was yet to come, assuming America’s collective reaction was as wrong as could reasonably be expected. And this last is still on my mind, a week later. It never ended, and is nowhere near doing so: residual shock waves continue to fan out, fraying the loose fabric of beliefs and assumptions that is America.

Hatred, fear, and violence are not the appropriate response to hatred, fear, and violence.