I found my rental car at the Midland airport and drove 12 miles to Rosie Granados’ house on N. Hancock Ave. in Odessa. Around 5 p.m. Sunday, Sept. 1, I knocked on Rosie’s door.

Her twin sister, 29-year-old Mary Granados, had been fatally shot by a killer on a 64-minute shooting spree. Mary had been dead for 25 hours. And as a reporter, I was there to ask about that.

But my flight from Houston had been delayed, and already I was too late. Rosie wasn’t home. I found her there first thing the next morning in tears, turning a television reporter away.

She had spoken to CNN, to NBC, to ABC. She didn’t want to do any more interviews.

And who could blame her? She still had to bury her twin.

I became acutely aware of the dilemma: People were experiencing the worst days of their lives, and there we were — dozens of us reporters from all over — desperate for our piece of the story.

[Sixty-four minutes of terror: The shooter’s path from Midland to Odessa]

That’s our job, after all: getting people to talk, asking the right questions, turning answers into stories that convey what the aftermath of these tragedies looks and feels like.

I can see how it seems slimy, unfeeling. We watch Twitter for clues to who died. We keep an eye on other news outlets. We search addresses and phone numbers for grieving family members and try to get to them first.

The terror is still fresh, but we justify the hounding, arguing that some people do want to talk, that we can handle their stories better, that readers need to know what is happening.

I live 500 miles from Odessa in Houston, and I arrived to a city still counting the injured and naming the dead. I didn’t know the streets or people. I wouldn’t be there longer than a week.

I searched for someone who might share with me anyway.

One victim, still in the hospital, answered my call and, after a pause, said she wasn’t ready to talk. She choked back tears. The sister of a man who died said she would call me back and never responded to me again.

Should I keep trying them? I didn’t know.

I rang the doorbell twice at the house of the coworker of another man fatally shot. She shut the door in my face.

On Facebook, I messaged the wrong Marco Corral, the wrong Daniel Munoz.

I added to the business cards and notes left on doors.

I gave my number to strangers — a first responder eating at Whataburger, a clergyman speaking at the community vigil — and asked them to give it to the injured people they knew.

At a local hospital, a spokesperson told me that a victim had answered questions for some reporters, but, like Rosie, he had had enough. At another hospital, they were considering unplugging the patients’ phones.

Outside the home of a 17-month-old injured in her face, a note hung on the red door: “At this time, we ask that everyone respect our privacy.”

I fretted. I worried my editor would think I failed.

I know it’s always like this. After every mass shooting, members of the media descend. In Santa Fe, Texas, hours after a bullet passed through the neck of 16-year-old Rome Shubert, I watched him answer the same questions over and over.

After the shooting in Sutherland Springs, I read Lauren McGaughy’s essay in the Dallas Morning News: “The media horde, myself included, owes you an apology,” she wrote to the community.

In Midland and Odessa, it was impossible not to wonder — when so many people seemed to wish we would leave — if what we were doing was right.

But I kept going, because that’s what I was there to do.

They turned me away at Twin Peaks, at Olive Garden, at Freedom Buick GMC Truck.

The U.S. Postal Service declined to let me interview Mary’s coworkers. Ector ISD wouldn’t let me on campus when students decorated a tree in honor of their slain friend.

Then the daughter of one victim welcomed me into their home, and I tried not to act shocked.

[Victims’ stories: Injured mother just wanted to get her daughters’ birthday pizzas]

With time, I found others to interview. One sat down and apologized about her appearance. I pointed to the pimple I was getting on my chin. We hugged.

At best, we patiently, empathetically gave people the chance to share their stories — stories that would be read by voters, perhaps lawmakers. Every reporter interviews, writes differently. Maybe this matters. Maybe it doesn’t.

At worst, we added to their trauma and pain.

It’s something worth talking about. There’s no reason to think we’ve seen our last mass shooting.

On Saturday, before my flight home, I went to Mary’s funeral. I sat in the back. I saw her sister Rosie again, standing beside the American flag casket.

I had told Rosie when I met her that I was also a twin. I didn’t know what she was feeling, but I knew that losing my brother would feel like losing part of myself.

Perhaps because of this, her loss touched me most.

I believe in the power of stories to change how people think. That’s why I wanted to be a journalist. I was there in the folding chair because I wanted to mourn Mary, and because I still wanted to find a way to write about her.

I never want to be Rosie.

My brother and I will celebrate our 29th birthday Tuesday. When Rosie turns 30 in December, she will be without her sister.

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