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Talk to nicely.

The bright lights from the dozens of cameras nearly blind me with their strange intensity

as I'm led from the helicopter and into the hangar.

The cameras, with their lights and their operators, follow right on my heels until I pass

the rows of chairs, halfway already full of reporters.

I'm directed to the long table that's been set up for the press conference. Despite the fact that I'm wearing thermal underwear, a long-sleeve tea, two sweaters, a hoodie, and a thick parka,

I still shiver as I take my seat behind a bank of microphones that almost block my view of the waiting journalists.

I'm one of them. I was. Maybe I still am. It's hard to say what I am anymore.

If someone were to ask me right now, and some of those faces out there just might, I wouldn't

be able to say what I am, who I am. I know my name, but a name is nothing compared to what

lurks in the soul.

That's the real me, that lurking soul, what waits underneath.

A glance to my right tells me that my entourage won't be joining me behind the microphones.

They may be lawyers and suits, but none of them want to be on record or quoted regarding anything about me and the tragedy.

A healthy distance is what one of them said, as I was grilled relentlessly on this ship,

before finally being allowed to come over to the mainland via that helicopter.

None of the lawyers, and only half the suits, wanted this press conference.

But the other half of the suits insisted, as did the CEO of Corbell Communications,

the media company that owns the magazine I work for, so a press conference was set up.

...