France. Paris. 2015. A covered body outside the Bataclan, after three ISIS-affiliated Frenchmen of Algerian descent killed 90 people and wounded 200. I was attending a photo fair and enjoying dinner with friends when a series of texts came in about bomb blasts at the Stade de France. I raced out of dinner to grab my cameras. When I arrived at the Bataclan, the police had begun to close off the streets, and it was almost completely silent but for the periodic ripping sounds of automatic fire a few blocks away. A few drunks staggered around, shouting obscenities and singing. After getting turned back several times, I managed to slide my way through the police cordon. The siege was over, and shiver- ing concertgoers were milling around, covered in reflective mylar blankets. One blank-eyed man mumbled testimony to masked police. My camera was tucked under my jacket, and I kept to the shadows. As I neared the Bataclan, I saw a covered body under a street lamp, raised my camera, and took a few shots. Two rescue workers stared at me in disgust and shouted me away. Reports from first responders said that one of the most excruciating parts of the aftermath was hearing the constant ringing and buzzing of mobile phones on the bodies of the dead as loved ones frantically tried to reach them.