I’ve seen the footage of Renee Nicole Good’s final moments a dozen times by now. So have you, probably, whether you wanted to or not. Maybe it presented itself unbidden in your timeline and you couldn’t look away; maybe you sought it in an effort to make sense of the act of violence captured there. Maybe it’s the shooting itself that fascinates you, the physics and logistics of the moment it all went to hell: When did he pull his gun, and why? How fast was the car moving when it struck him—or did it? Which way were the wheels turned?

As for me, I haven’t watched the video of Good’s death anywhere near as many times as I’ve watched the ones in which she’s still alive. Because the part that fascinates me, and haunts me, happens earlier: that final, fleeting moment just before the car moves forward and the shots ring out. It’s the last thing Renee Nicole Good would have heard, apart from the crack of the gun: a familiar voice, raised in a defiant cheer.

“Drive, baby, drive!”