My cousin was a valued member of his rural mountain community. At a Reno air show, the rudder of a P51 racing plane failed (the Galloping Ghost ), and in a stroke of bad luck, veered into the grandstands, exploding messily. Most racing-plane accidents wreck in unoccupied territory, so only the pilot dies. In this case dozens of spectators were injured and nine people died. My cousin was the last of them.
Survived by a wife and two boys, his community couldn’t imagine why God might have gathered him up that day.
There’s no rhyme to it. My cousin got picked in the wrong lottery and perished.