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statue. In its lights, two men climbed out, one oddly wearing a sports jacket. The other reached back into the belly of the helicopter and pulled out gear that at first I thought might save my brother. But then the man heaved it up onto his shoulder and I recognized it for what it was: a camera. On the tail of the helicopter I found the letters WPBE .
    I had no way of knowing that they’d beam our story out in time for the morning news on regional affiliates, or that the national networks would pick it up by midday. They filmed the crews of would-be lumberjacks hacking away at the pine treesand took long shots of the silent hole. Mrs. Wheeler slipped an arm over my mother’s shoulder and convinced her to talk to the press. The cameras zoomed in on their crying faces, and that’s when my mother and Mrs. Wheeler asked for all those watching to pray for Daniel. Much of America woke up to that story—a small town in Pennsylvania was desperately trying to save a boy who had fallen into the earth. And that boy needed your prayers.
    By lunchtime the men finished dragging the amputated pines off to the side of the new path, and the drilling equipment got hauled up slowly over the fresh stumps. Three more news crews had arrived by then, and together they reduced what seemed like the greatest tragedy to ever strike our town to witty phrases like “Peril in Paradise.” It took most of the afternoon to drill the rescue tunnel, but the lead story on the evening news was going to be one of hope. Soon rescuers would finish the tunnel. Young Daniel would be in his mother’s arms before nightfall. Americans from coast to coast, and viewers across the world, held their breath.
    I was on my perch atop that gray rock when the rescue tunnel collapsed. They had extracted the drill, and that miner from Scranton had been strapped into a harness, which was attached to a winch set up over the opening. The hard hat he wore had a light on its forehead. He held a shovel that seemed like a kid’s toy. But from what I could hear, they thought the rescue tunnel was only a few feet away from Daniel, and the miner would carefully dig sideways until he reached my brother. That was the plan. But just a few minutes after they lowered him down the rescue hole, the earth sighed and the ground between the two holes sagged.
    I didn’t understand at first why everyone began shouting,why those manning the winch began yelling, “Get him up! Get him up!” When the miner emerged, his face was black with dirt, and he coughed and gasped for breath. A paramedic bent over him.
    The men around Daniel’s hole were on their knees, and one of them began to cry. The miner’s efforts had caused the hole to cave in. My three-year-old brother was now buried alive.
    I can’t even begin to tell you how I felt, partly because I don’t want to think about it.
    But this was now the grim news that beamed out in time for the six o’clock broadcasts. If you see snippets of those old programs now, you can tell that people had given up. There was more talk of a recovery team than rescue efforts. The local news crew left, maybe out of respect, maybe because somebody didn’t think a limp body being pulled from the earth would make good television. But the other crews stayed, and they kept filming while the men deliberated and decided to drill another tunnel.
    That second night was harder. Listening to the whirling whine of the drilling machine, I tried to believe my brother could still be alive somehow. I tried to pray. I tried not to be angry at God, but it was hard. I mean, if everything happened according to God’s plan, then God intended for Daniel to fall down that well. He intended for my brother—a child completely without sin—to be cold and wet and terrified, or dead. And He meant for me to feel this crushing guilt.
    Still, I thought it was important to try and pray, and after a while I just started saying,