When I was nine or ten, the older brother of a friend of mine–our parents were friends so we spent time together because of that–was killed in an accident. After the funeral, there was a small gathering at their home, and my friend and I wandered off to her room. I do not recollect what we did there; what I remember is the alarm clock in her brother’s room going off.

It was a buzzer alarm and was set piercingly loud. We were startled by the noise and ran into the hall only to stand outside the door of her brother’s room. I remember quite clearly, standing there, stock-still, not knowing what to do. The buzzer was blaring and we just stood in the hall, afraid to enter his room. Our fear was not of ghosts or any such thing, but because it felt so terribly wrong.

After an eternity that probably lasted only a minute or two her father came down the hall, went into his room, and turned off the alarm. I do not remember if he said anything to us, and I do not remember what we did after, I simply remember standing in the dark hallway, listening to the blaring terrible noise, and feeling the noise in the same way I felt the death–something jarring and unexpected and horrible.