These are the stories that, during my long depression and sentence to night-side editing earlier this year, used to make me want to weep and smash my head against the desk: Thirty-eight years ago, a baby boy was born. His mother cradled him lovingly, gazing into his tiny face and wondering what life would hold for him — a college degree? Fame? Power? Happiness?

One thing is true: No mother ever imagines her baby will die by drowning in a steaming river of shit, does she?