It’s hard to believe, but just a few months ago, the news wasn’t getting to us, either.
We still didn’t have the power to send photos to friends and family, or even the power of our phones to snap them up and share them.
We weren’t using our phones for video, for sharing our music or photos.
We couldn’t download music or movies, so we couldn’t share them online.
And that’s when news began to arrive that we were all experiencing a virtual blackout.
I heard my mother say in a voice that made me shake.
“The Internet is gone.”
We were losing our way.
I knew I had to try something to find some semblance of normalcy, so I began to research.
I found websites that promised to help me find news I wasn’t seeing, like news from the New York Times or ABC News.
I discovered a website called “The New York Post.”
I found news sites that were dedicated to local news, like the New Orleans Times and WDSU.
And I found sites that covered local businesses and their news.
The only thing that seemed to be missing from those sites was news of my own.
What’s more, I was still not seeing any news about my hometown, where I grew up.
It was like I was living in a different universe.
In January, I took the train to New York City to take my first photo shoot.
The train was on the edge of Central Park.
I walked along the sidewalk, then up the steps to the front of the station, which is right next to the subway station.
The next morning, I woke up early and headed straight to the Post office.
After a few days, I found the news I needed.
I had missed my train home, but my phone wasn’t in my pocket.
I was trying to read a news article on my phone when I saw a headline: “New York Post has gone offline.”
A little more than a week later, I had a photo of my mother on the front page of the Post.
I thought that was it.
But it wasn’t.
I got more news the next day.
The Post had gone offline.
The news that day was the news that every New Yorker had missed the day before.
It had gone dark, like a zombie apocalypse, and people were not even able to read the headline.
In the days that followed, I spent the next few days looking at the Post website.
I searched the news archives for stories about New York, and I read the latest headlines and read about the people who lived in New York.
The photos were still there, but they were not being shared.
As time went on, I would sit down and read the articles again and again.
In March, I realized that I was losing my mind.
I went online to look up the stories that I hadn’t been able to see.
I looked up the New Yorkers who were still alive, and my heart sank.
People were still talking about the dark days of 2017.
People still talked about the missing photos.
People kept telling me, “It’s OK.
We can get through this.”
The next day, I read a story about a missing New York man.
The article said that he was a high school student and that he had been missing since May 10, when his phone went dead.
A police search found his body in the woods a few weeks later.
But the story was not the only news that had gone missing.
There were reports that a homeless man had been kidnapped and then shot dead.
And there was a report that an Uber driver had been arrested and charged with the murder of a homeless woman.
The story of a missing man and his family became the news all over again.
The New York subway was closed for the day.
And my friends and I couldn’t go online to check on the news.
I felt as if I was going to be the first one out the door.
I kept searching, and every time I tried to get online, the New Yorker story was still there.
I started to wonder what could be happening.
The city was in mourning.
But when it came to what was happening to the city, no one was talking.
In many ways, New York was in the midst of a virtual mourning period.
The blackout was only temporary.
The streets were filled with mourners and tourists.
The subway was back open, and we were getting news of the missing man.
Then things started to change.
A woman who lived across the street from me started to get a lot of phone calls.
The phone calls became more and more frequent.
I didn’t know how to respond.
I told my mother about the new phone calls, and she said, “What are you talking about?”
I asked, “Why are you getting these calls?”
She said, ‘We’re getting some bad news.’
I said, “‘Who are you?”
She responded, ‘