Oh, I think we still love death, still scramble to peek over the fences to catch a glimpse, but only when the dead is a young girl, killed horrifically nearly 10 years ago, who today still dances across our TV screens in make-up and dress-up as if she never left.

In the next instant comes the flash of the little girl's supposed killer, all cozy in his business-class seat, pate and duck on the menu, mere hours away from the sack lunches and shackles that await him.

We slurp it up. And incredibly, we beg for more.

But my eyes move farther down the news page. These days, that's where I find the stories that grip me most.

I am staring at one right now.

His name was Chris Sitton. He was 21, an Army specialist and medic with the 10th Mountain Division, only three years removed from graduation at Montrose High.

I didn't know him, but I know firsthand how he died. Only five months into his deployment to eastern Afghanistan, he was riding along in a supply convoy when the ground beneath his vehicle exploded.

He probably died straight away. At least that is my prayer.

His death likely won't make the evening news outside of Montrose. CNN and Fox won't plop a satellite truck outside his folks' home. They're too busy filming exteriors of a home in Boulder where the dead little girl's family hasn't lived in years.

I noticed Chris Sitton's story. I notice them all, and with each one, pray a little bit.

Honestly, it angers me some, maybe a lot.

I am not a proponent of just pulling up stakes and getting out of Iraq. If you have ever walked the nasty streets of that awful place, you know it can only become much worse should we just up and leave.

But what is the plan? Is there one for success?

"Stay the course" doesn't seem viable when the reality is that our heavily armed young men and women leave their bases every morning virtually powerless to stop the ground beneath them from exploding.

I have stood over the graves of some of the unlucky ones. I still hear from those who loved them. They write in some cases, I think, because I was among those who saw their sons alive after they did.

Some have become strident anti-war activists, sending e-mail with stories plucked from anti-administration Web sites.

Others detest the activism, in private conversations saying they would never entertain sullying their child's memory so.

I take no sides. A parent will grieve the way he or she will.

Chris Sitton was an Eagle Scout in Montrose, clearly a good kid likely eager to serve his country, to just do his bit.

The services are full of such young people, my experience tells me. And not one of them, I know instinctively and from seeing it, ever tried to beg off that last deadly patrol.

In the absence of an honest, workable plan, I grieve their passing even harder.

Juan Polino, you see, just called. He leaves a message about once a month now.

A sergeant in the 3rd Armored Cavalry when I met him in Iraq, he served two tours and knew 21 men who died there. He is now an Army National Guard recruiter in California.

He has moved back in with his mother and father, both of whom once confided they did not expect him to return to them from Iraq.

They call him every three hours or so now when he is not home.

He still awakes at 4 a.m., he says, goes outside and does "PT," Army lingo for physical training.

He thought it would be so great being back home, Juan Polino said, but in the months he has been back, it feels like anything but home.

It is often just him and his memories.

"My home is somewhere else," he says, almost whispering. "Everyone tells me how happy they are that I am back home, but I don't feel like this is home."

So he is considering rejoining the regular Army. He speaks with other soldiers from his old unit every other day. They tell him, he says, that another deployment is not far away. In conversation, he can barely stomach the idea of them going without him.

What of the multiple roadside bombs, the insurgent firefights he survived, I ask him. He says he doesn't care, that maybe that is what he is supposed to be doing.

"Every day," he says, when I finally ask how often he thinks of those he knew who died.

"Actually, very few moments pass when I don't think of them, especially Sgt. V (Staff Sgt. Justin Vasquez of Manzanola), of how many people's lives have changed and been devastated by his death."

It is why, he said, he calls the man's mother at least every other day. Just to check in on her.

"I still have dreams today about that guy," he says. "In them, he's still alive. It's harsh."

Everyday, I think of him, too.

So with each death that is reported, I read the story. In my mind, it should always be the top of the news.

These killings did not happen 10 years ago.

They are continuing.

And sadly, with each one, there is never an arrest, no arraignment, no business class, no pate or duck, no CNN truck.