On April 15, twin bombs exploded in the spectator areas near the finish line of the Boston Marathon, killing three people, one of whom was an eight-year-old boy. The blasts injured more than 100 others as well, many of whom were hurt severely. In the days that followed, I have seen a remarkable outpouring of support for the bombing victims, for the city of Boston, for the running community, and for the many heroes who charged in through the smoke to save lives, heedless of any other dangers that might have been around them.
This column is not about all of that. I wish it was.