Recovering from the traumatic brain injury of social media

She sat at the stop sign watching the scene of emergency vehicles clustered around the community building. The lights and color were all smudged from the rain on her windshield. A man in an orange medic's jumpsuit knelt on the ground and she could see him rifling through a large medical kit. She turned on the radio. The car had one of those old manual dials so you could actually tune the stations in and out as slowly as you so chose. She swept through a piece of Mexican Tehano music. The squelch of the signal was suddenly very loud. The wind outside had grown stronger, so much so that just a few seconds later a large gust whipped over the trees and flattened a sign advertising antacids on sale outside a small convenient store on the corner. What a strange thing to advertise, she thought to herself. A few more turns and there it was in crisp detail: the trial. Everyone was listening, it was all she over-heard wherever she went. But it went over her head, especially on the radio. What did one man’s guilt have anything to do with how things were going to turn out for her? It all felt a bit pervy, to tell you the truth, and to think that no matter what anyone did it wasn’t going to change anything about what had happened to those kids. She would rather listen to country music, she thought, as she tuned towards that identifiable residence on the high end of the dial, to get to which she had to travel through two more broadcasts of that same live courtroom feed. So they were all broadcasting it. She hoped the country song was good. She needed it to be good. Otherwise she would be start thinking about all those kids again and it would start to turn her stomach. The world was going to shit. Over by the community center, they were bringing someone out on a stretcher. She made the left turn, finally, and moved along on her way to buy groceries.