Would you pull the lever? Yes or no?\u201d<\/p>\n
The question hung suspended in the stagnant air of the lecture hall, heavier than the humidity of late September. I sat in the third row, my pen hovering over a fresh notebook, the spine crackling as I pressed it flat. Around me, the buzz of two hundred students shifting in their seats created a low-frequency hum of anxiety. We had come to\u00a0Northbridge College<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0expecting Justice 101 to be an easy elective\u2014a \u201cGPA booster\u201d where we could debate vague concepts of right and wrong while scrolling through our phones under the desk.<\/span><\/p>\n We were wrong.<\/p>\n Professor\u00a0Graham Whitaker<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0did not look like a man interested in easy answers. He stood beneath the harsh, buzzing fluorescent lights, a piece of chalk in his hand and the calm, predatory confidence of a man who made strangers uncomfortable for a living. He wore a tweed jacket that had seen better decades, and his eyes scanned the room not with hostility, but with a clinical curiosity.<\/span><\/p>\n On the screen behind him glowed a stark, clean diagram: a trolley racing down a track toward five workers who were oblivious to their impending doom. A lever, drawn in white, offered a choice. Pull it, and the trolley diverts to a side track where a single worker stands.<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t look at your neighbors,\u201d Whitaker commanded, his voice projecting without a microphone. \u201cThis isn\u2019t a democracy. It\u2019s a decision. Five lives versus one. Do you intervene?\u201d<\/p>\n I stared at the screen. My mind drifted instantly from the hypothetical ink lines to the very real spreadsheet open on my laptop in the background\u2014my aunt\u2019s medical bills versus my tuition. The arithmetic of survival.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s obvious,\u201d a guy in a varsity jacket shouted from the back. \u201cYou pull it. Five is greater than one. Basic math.\u201d<\/p>\n Whitaker nodded slowly, like he was collecting evidence for a crime we hadn\u2019t committed yet. \u201cMath,\u201d he repeated. \u201cIs that all morality is to you? Arithmetic?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s minimizing harm,\u201d the student doubled down.<\/p>\n \u201cGood,\u201d Whitaker said, turning to the chalkboard. He wrote the word\u00a0OUTCOMES<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0in jagged capital letters. \u201cNow, let\u2019s move from choosing to redirect harm\u2026 to choosing to cause it.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n He clicked a remote. The slide changed. The lever was gone. Now, the diagram showed a footbridge arching over the track. A large man\u2014heavy enough to stop the trolley\u2014stood peering over the edge. You stood behind him.<\/p>\n \u201cThe trolley is coming,\u201d Whitaker narrated, his voice dropping an octave. \u201cThe five workers will die. You can\u2019t stop it yourself; you aren\u2019t heavy enough. But the man next to you is. If you push him, he falls. He dies. His body jams the wheels. The five live. Do you push him?\u201d<\/p>\n The room reacted instantly. Laughter, groans, visceral sounds of disgust.<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s murder!\u201d someone snapped from the front row.<\/p>\n \u201cBut the math is the same,\u201d a sharp voice cut through the noise.<\/p>\n I turned to see who had spoken. It was\u00a0Owen Ramirez<\/span><\/strong>, an engineering major I recognized from the library. He was sitting two seats away, frowning at the screen. \u201cIf the goal is to save five lives, the mechanism shouldn\u2019t matter. But\u2026\u201d He paused, rubbing his temple.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cBut?\u201d Whitaker pressed, stepping off the podium and walking down the aisle. He moved like a shark in shallow water.<\/p>\n \u201cBut pulling a lever feels like an administrative decision,\u201d Owen said. \u201cPushing a man feels like a crime. You\u2019re physically responsible.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cPrecisely.\u201d Whitaker stopped right in front of my desk. He smelled of old paper and bitter coffee. He looked at me. \u201cAnd you? What is your name?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLeah,\u201d I managed, my throat dry.<\/p>\n \u201cLeah. Why does the physical act change the morality? If the result is five people breathing instead of five corpses, why do you hesitate to push?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBecause he\u2019s not a tool,\u201d I said, the words tumbling out before I could filter them. \u201cHe\u2019s a person. In the first scenario, the lone worker is a victim of circumstance. In the second, we are using the man on the bridge as a piece of equipment to solve a problem. We\u2019re turning a human being into a brake pad.\u201d<\/p>\n Whitaker stared at me for a long moment. The silence stretched until it was uncomfortable. Then, he smiled\u2014a tight, joyless expression.<\/p>\n \u201cWe are using him as a means to an end,\u201d Whitaker said softly. He turned back to the board and wrote:\u00a0DUTY<\/span><\/strong>.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cThis course,\u201d he announced, addressing the whole room, \u201cis not about your feelings. It is not about your comfort. It is about what happens when your moral instincts clash. And I promise you, by December, that clash will keep you awake at night.\u201d<\/p>\n He pivoted from the trolley to the real world. \u201cYou\u2019ve heard people say, \u2018I had no choice,\u2019\u201d he continued. \u201cCourts hear that every day. We tell ourselves that necessity excuses our actions.\u201d He paused, holding up a single sheet of paper. \u201cBut does the law accept that? Does\u00a0justice<\/span>\u00a0accept that?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n He signaled for the TAs to distribute a handout. It was a case summary:\u00a0Regina v. Dudley and Stephens<\/span>. I scanned the text. 1884. A shipwreck. Four survivors in a lifeboat. No water. No food. A teenage cabin boy, Richard Parker, ill and weak. Days of starvation. A decision made in the delirium of thirst. A killing. The boy was eaten so the men could survive.<\/span><\/p>\n The lecture hall felt colder. The playful debate about stick figures on a track evaporated. This was flesh and blood.<\/p>\n \u201cThey were rescued four days later,\u201d Whitaker said. \u201cThey admitted what they did. They expected sympathy. They argued it was survival.\u201d<\/p>\n He leaned against his desk. \u201cSome of you are thinking,\u00a0\u2018I would never.\u2019<\/span>\u00a0Others are thinking,\u00a0<\/span>\u2018I would do whatever it takes to live.\u2019<\/span>\u00a0The law\u2014at least in Victorian England\u2014said necessity was not a defense for murder. They were sentenced to death.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n Owen\u2019s jaw tightened. I could see the gears turning in his head\u2014the engineer trying to calculate the structural integrity of the law.<\/p>\n Whitaker went to the board and wrote two names in block letters:\u00a0BENTHAM<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0and\u00a0<\/span>KANT<\/span><\/strong>.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cJeremy Bentham<\/span><\/strong>,\u201d he said, tapping the first name, \u201casks what produces the greatest good for the greatest number. He is the father of Utilitarianism. He would ask: Is the boy\u2019s life worth less than the three men who have families to support?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n A ripple of unease went through the room.<\/p>\n \u201cImmanuel Kant<\/span><\/strong>,\u201d he tapped the second name, \u201casks what we must never do\u2014no matter the outcome. He believes in categorical duties. Human dignity is not negotiable. You cannot kill the cabin boy, even if it saves the world.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n He looked over the class, his eyes landing on me again.<\/p>\n \u201cBy the end of this course, you won\u2019t just know their arguments. You\u2019ll feel the weight of them. You will realize that your intuition is a fragile shield against the complexities of the world.\u201d<\/p>\n A hand shot up near the back. \u201cSo\u2026 which one is right? What\u2019s the answer?\u201d<\/p>\n Whitaker chuckled, a dry sound like leaves scraping pavement. \u201cThe answer? If you want answers, go to the math department. Here, we deal in questions.\u201d<\/p>\n He checked his watch. \u201cNext week, we put the survivors on trial. Half of you will defend them. Half of you will prosecute. And I expect you to argue like your freedom depends on it.\u201d<\/p>\n The room buzzed with the noise of zippers and shuffling papers as class ended, but I couldn\u2019t move. I stared at the handout.\u00a0A teenage cabin boy too weak to resist.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cRough start,\u201d Owen said, standing up and slinging his bag over his shoulder. He looked at me. \u201cYou\u2019re Leah, right? That was a good point about the \u2018brake pad.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThanks,\u201d I said, finally gathering my things. \u201cYou\u2019re Owen. The engineer.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGuilty,\u201d he smiled. \u201cI like systems. Inputs, outputs. This class\u2026\u201d He gestured at the empty chalkboard. \u201cIt\u2019s messy. I don\u2019t like messy.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLife is messy,\u201d I murmured, thinking of the eviction notice on my kitchen counter.<\/p>\n \u201cMaybe,\u201d Owen said. \u201cBut we build bridges to get over the mess, don\u2019t we?\u201d<\/p>\n We walked out of the auditorium together. Whitaker was erasing the board slowly. As I glanced back, he had left only one question written in the corner, stark white against the black slate.<\/p>\n When \u2018necessity\u2019 feels real, what does justice require?<\/p>\n I didn\u2019t know the answer. But as I walked into the blinding afternoon sun, I had a sinking feeling that I was about to find out the hard way.<\/p>\n The second week of the semester hit me like a physical blow. The novelty of the fall had worn off, replaced by the grinding reality of being a scholarship student in a school designed for the wealthy. My aunt\u2019s condition had worsened; the dialysis treatments were draining her savings, and by extension, the safety net I relied on for rent.<\/p>\n I sat in the campus library, surrounded by leather-bound books that smelled of dust and privilege. Across from me, Owen had spread out an array of highlighters and legal pads. We had been paired up for the\u00a0Dudley and Stephens<\/span>\u00a0mock trial. Fate, or perhaps Whitaker\u2019s cruel sense of humor, had assigned us the defense.<\/span><\/p>\n We had to argue that eating the cabin boy was justified.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s impossible,\u201d I said, dropping my head into my hands. \u201cIt\u2019s cannibalism, Owen. We have to stand up in front of fifty people and argue that murder is okay as long as you\u2019re really, really hungry.\u201d<\/p>\n Owen clicked his pen rhythmically. Click. Click. Click. \u201cNot hungry,\u201d he corrected. \u201cStarving. Dying. Look at the facts, Leah. If they hadn\u2019t killed the boy, all four would have died. Four deaths versus one. From a utilitarian perspective, it\u2019s the only logical choice.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou sound like a machine,\u201d I snapped.<\/p>\n \u201cAnd you sound like a saint who\u2019s never been desperate,\u201d he shot back, his voice surprisingly sharp.<\/p>\n I froze. He didn\u2019t know about the three jobs I worked over the summer. He didn\u2019t know about the ramen noodles that made up 90% of my diet. He didn\u2019t know that \u201cdesperation\u201d was my roommate.<\/p>\n \u201cSorry,\u201d Owen said, softening. \u201cI just mean\u2026 we have to win this argument. And the only way to win is to strip away the emotion. We have to use Bentham.\u201d<\/p>\n He slid a book toward me.\u00a0Introduction to the Principles of Morals and Legislation<\/span>.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cBentham says nature has placed mankind under the governance of two sovereign masters:\u00a0pain<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0and\u00a0<\/span>pleasure<\/span><\/strong>,\u201d Owen recited. \u201cIt is for them alone to point out what we ought to do.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n I read the passage. It was cold, logical, and seductive. If morality is just maximizing happiness and minimizing pain, then the cabin boy\u2014who was already dying, who had no dependents\u2014was the logical sacrifice.<\/p>\n \u201cBut what about consent?\u201d I asked. \u201cThe boy didn\u2019t agree to die. Doesn\u2019t he have a right to his own life?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cKant would say yes,\u201d Owen admitted. \u201cKant says we can\u2019t treat people as resources. But we aren\u2019t arguing for Kant. We\u2019re arguing for necessity.\u201d<\/p>\n We spent the next four nights in that library. We drank too much cheap coffee and argued until our throats were sore. I found myself playing devil\u2019s advocate, channeling my own financial fears into the legal arguments.\u00a0When you are drowning,<\/span>\u00a0I thought,\u00a0<\/span>you will grab onto anything to stay afloat. Even if that \u2018thing\u2019 is another person.<\/span><\/p>\n On the day of the mock trial, the lecture hall was transformed. Whitaker had pushed the desks into a makeshift courtroom. He sat in the back, silent, a grading rubric in his lap. A senior law student sat at the front as the judge.<\/p>\n The prosecution team went first. They were polished, righteous, and devastating. They spoke of the sanctity of life, the slippery slope of allowing murder for convenience. They quoted Kant. They made the cabin boy sound like a saint.<\/p>\n Then it was our turn.<\/p>\n Owen took the floor first. He was steady, methodical. He laid out the timeline of starvation. He presented the medical evidence that the boy would have died within hours regardless. He built a logical cage that trapped the jury in the inevitability of the act.<\/p>\n Then I stood up. My hands were shaking, but my voice was steady.<\/p>\n \u201cThe prosecution speaks of high ideals,\u201d I said, looking at the faces of my classmates. \u201cThey speak of laws written by men in warm rooms with full bellies. But the law cannot demand the impossible. When you are stripped of civilization, when you are reduced to biology, the rules change.\u201d<\/p>\n I saw Whitaker watching me, his eyes unreadable.<\/p>\n \u201cWe do not punish a man for breathing,\u201d I continued, my voice rising. \u201cAnd in that boat, the urge to survive was as involuntary as drawing breath. To condemn these men is to condemn human nature itself. It is easy to be moral when you are safe. It is a luxury. And on that boat, luxury was the first thing to die.\u201d<\/p>\n I sat down. The room was silent.<\/p>\n The student judge adjusted her glasses. She looked at me, then at Owen. She didn\u2019t look impressed by the rhetoric. She looked disturbed.<\/p>\n \u201cIf necessity excuses murder,\u201d the judge asked, her voice cutting through the silence, \u201cthen who decides whose life becomes the sacrifice? If I am starving, can I kill the person next to me? If I need a heart transplant, can I take yours?\u201d<\/p>\n No one answered quickly. That was the point. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.<\/p>\n Owen opened his mouth, then closed it. The utilitarian logic crumbled when you made it personal.<\/p>\n \u201cWe aren\u2019t talking about transplants,\u201d I said weakly. \u201cWe\u2019re talking about a lifeboat.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cEvery moral crisis is a lifeboat,\u201d the judge said. \u201cThat\u2019s the danger.\u201d<\/p>\n She ruled against us.<\/p>\n After class, the adrenaline crashed. I felt exhausted, hollowed out by the defense of something I fundamentally hated. Whitaker stopped Owen and me at the door as the room emptied.<\/p>\n \u201cYou lost,\u201d Whitaker said simply.<\/p>\n \u201cThe judge was biased,\u201d Owen muttered.<\/p>\n \u201cThe judge asked the right question,\u201d Whitaker corrected. \u201cYou made a compelling argument for survival, Leah. And Owen, your logic was sound. But you both failed to answer the core problem.\u201d<\/p>\n He leaned in, his voice dropping. \u201cYou treated the boy as a variable in an equation. You forgot that justice isn\u2019t just about the result. It\u2019s about the\u00a0dignity<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0of the participants.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cSo what do you believe?\u201d I asked, bolder than I felt. \u201cWould you have killed the boy?\u201d<\/p>\n Whitaker\u2019s eyes held steady, grey and piercing. \u201cI believe that justice begins when you stop lying to yourself about what your beliefs cost. You want a world that is safe\u00a0and<\/span>\u00a0free. You want to be effective\u00a0<\/span>and<\/span>\u00a0moral. Usually, you can\u2019t be both.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n He turned to leave, then paused. \u201cGet some rest. The real work hasn\u2019t even started yet.\u201d<\/p>\n As we walked into the hallway, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, I realized something unsettling. The course wasn\u2019t about the trolley. It wasn\u2019t about the lifeboat.<\/p>\n It was about what kind of person you become when the world backs you into a corner. And I was terrified that I was beginning to understand the men in the boat.<\/p>\n By November, the trees on campus were bare, skeletal fingers scratching against a grey sky. The lecture hall had changed. The jokes had stopped. The lazy certainty of the first week had vanished. Students argued now with a careful precision, afraid of the traps Whitaker laid in every sentence.<\/p>\n We had moved beyond classic dilemmas into the messy, bleeding edge of public policy. Torture. Income inequality. Affirmative action. Every class felt like walking through a minefield.<\/p>\n Leah\u2019s confidence\u2014my confidence\u2014had evolved into something tougher: humility. I stopped arguing to win and started arguing to understand.<\/p>\n \u201cI used to think harsh punishment was always justified if it reduced crime,\u201d I admitted in class during a debate on the death penalty. \u201cI looked at the numbers. But if we execute one innocent person to scare a thousand criminals\u2026 aren\u2019t we just pushing the man off the bridge again?\u201d<\/p>\n Whitaker didn\u2019t praise me. He just nodded. \u201cSo, you\u2019ve found your line. Now, let\u2019s see if you can hold it.\u201d<\/p>\n For the final assignment, he didn\u2019t give us a test. He gave us a role.<\/p>\n \u201cYou are advisors to the Governor,\u201d Whitaker explained, handing out a thick packet of documents. \u201cA fictional state. A very real crisis.\u201d<\/p>\n The scenario was brutal. A highly contagious, lethal virus was spreading in the capital. The hospitals were overrun. The police were losing control. There was a treatment, but it was scarce.<\/p>\n The Dilemma:<\/span><\/strong> \u201cWrite a memo recommending a course of action,\u201d Whitaker ordered. \u201cDefend it against the strongest counter-arguments. You have one week.\u201d<\/p>\n I sat in my dorm room that night, the packet staring at me. My phone buzzed. It was my mom.<\/p>\n \u201cThey\u2019re raising the rent again, Lee. And your aunt\u2019s insurance denied the new medication. We\u2019re $800 short this month.\u201d<\/p>\n I stared at the text. Then I stared at the prompt.\u00a0500 deaths vs. 5,000 deaths.<\/span><\/p>\n If I chose Option A\u2014the utilitarian lockdown\u2014I saved 4,500 lives. But I trampled on the rights of the poor, the people who couldn\u2019t afford to be locked in, who needed to work to eat. People like my mother.<\/p>\n If I chose Option B\u2014the Kantian respect for rights\u2014I let thousands die. But I kept the government from becoming a tyranny.<\/p>\n I met Owen at the coffee shop downtown. He looked haggard. The engineering student who loved clear answers was drowning in the grey.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s Option A,\u201d Owen said, gripping his cup. \u201cIt has to be. You save 4,500 people. How can you justify letting them die just to say you respected their \u2018rights\u2019?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBecause once you allow the government to weld doors shut,\u201d I said, \u201cthey don\u2019t stop there. Who gets locked in, Owen? The rich neighborhoods? No. It\u2019s always the poor. Efficiency always costs the vulnerable the most.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBut 5,000 dead!\u201d Owen slammed his hand on the table. A few people looked over. \u201cThat\u2019s not just a number, Leah. That\u2019s five thousand funerals. Five thousand empty chairs.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI know!\u201d I hissed back. \u201cI know what the numbers mean. But if we treat dignity as negotiable, we lose something we can\u2019t get back.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re choosing to be pure rather than effective,\u201d Owen accused.<\/p>\n \u201cAnd you\u2019re choosing to be a butcher to be a savior,\u201d I retorted.<\/p>\n We sat in silence, the air between us charged with the frustration of two people realizing that there is no\u00a0right<\/span>\u00a0answer, only different kinds of wrong.<\/span><\/p>\n I wrote my memo in a fever state. I wrote, erased, and wrote again. I pictured the faces of the people I was condemning. I pictured my aunt. If the government could force treatment, maybe she would be saved. Or maybe she would be sacrificed for someone \u201cmore valuable.\u201d<\/p>\n In the end, I chose Option B. I argued that the legitimacy of the state rests on the consent of the governed, and to violate that trust is to destroy the society you are trying to save. I accepted the higher death toll. I wrote the number\u20145,000<\/span>\u2014and felt sick.<\/span><\/p>\n Owen chose Option A. He argued that the first duty of government is the preservation of life. He accepted the tyranny. He accepted the guilt.<\/p>\n We turned them in on Friday. Whitaker collected the papers without a word.<\/p>\n \u201cDid you feel it?\u201d he asked the class, tapping the stack of memos. \u201cThe nausea? The doubt?\u201d<\/p>\n He looked around the room.<\/p>\n \u201cGood. If you didn\u2019t feel sick, you\u2019re dangerous.\u201d<\/p>\n He dismissed the class, but he held up a hand. \u201cOn Monday, we finish. One last exercise. Prepare a single sentence. The one moral truth you are willing to stand by, even if it costs you everything.\u201d<\/p>\n I walked home through the falling snow. I had spent three months arguing about levers and lifeboats, but I finally realized that the lever wasn\u2019t in my hand. It was in my heart. And I had no idea if I was strong enough to pull it.<\/p>\n The final day of Justice 101 was silent. The winter sun cut through the blinds, casting long, prison-bar shadows across the desks. There was no lecture today. No slides. Just Whitaker, sitting on the edge of his desk, and us.<\/p>\n \u201cWe have spent fifteen weeks dismantling your certainties,\u201d Whitaker began quietly. \u201cWe have looked at the world through the eyes of Bentham, Kant, Aristotle, and Rawls. You have learned that every policy is a tragedy for someone.\u201d<\/p>\n He stood up. \u201cI asked you to bring one sentence. The line you would stand by. The bedrock beneath your feet.\u201d<\/p>\n He pointed to a student in the front row. \u201cRead.\u201d<\/p>\n The student stood. \u201cJustice is fairness. We must design society as if we didn\u2019t know where we would end up in it.\u201d<\/p>\n Whitaker nodded. \u201cRawls. The Veil of Ignorance. Good. Next.\u201d<\/p>\n A girl in the middle row stood. \u201cThe greatest good is not always the greatest number; sometimes, the greatest good is protecting the one against the many.\u201d<\/p>\n Whitaker\u2019s eyes moved to Owen.<\/p>\n Owen stood slowly. He looked older than he had in September. The arrogance of the engineer was gone.<\/p>\n \u201cIf we treat dignity as negotiable,\u201d Owen read, his voice rough, \u201cwe will one day discover it has been sold without our permission.\u201d<\/p>\n The room was quiet. It was an admission of defeat for his utilitarian worldview, and yet, a victory for his humanity.<\/p>\n \u201cLeah,\u201d Whitaker said.<\/p>\n I stood. My hands were sweating. I thought of the shipwreck. I thought of the virus. I thought of my aunt, lying in a dialysis chair, trusting a system that viewed her as an expense.<\/p>\n \u201cIf we protect people in theory but ignore suffering in practice,\u201d I read, my voice trembling, \u201cwe aren\u2019t choosing justice\u2014we\u2019re choosing comfort.\u201d<\/p>\n Whitaker listened, his arms folded. He looked at Owen. He looked at me. For the first time all semester, the predatory edge in his eyes softened into something like respect.<\/p>\n \u201cThat,\u201d he said, \u201cis moral seriousness. Not certainty. Not virtue-signaling. Seriousness.\u201d<\/p>\n He walked to the chalkboard and picked up the eraser. He wiped away the words\u00a0DUTY<\/span><\/strong>,\u00a0<\/span>OUTCOMES<\/span><\/strong>,\u00a0<\/span>BENTHAM<\/span><\/strong>,\u00a0<\/span>KANT<\/span><\/strong>. He wiped away the trolley tracks. He wiped away the lifeboat. The board was blank, a vast, dark void.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cThe class is over,\u201d Whitaker said. \u201cThe theories are tools, not answers. Someday, your job may put you in a position where a decision is irreversible\u2014where you hold the lever. No textbook will help you then. Your reasoning is all you have left.\u201d<\/p>\n He dropped the eraser in the tray. A cloud of chalk dust rose into the light.<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t let me down.\u201d<\/p>\n We packed our bags in silence. The semester was over.<\/p>\n I met Owen outside on the steps of the hall. The air was crisp, biting. Students rushed past us, worrying about finals, about parties, about Christmas break.<\/p>\n \u201cSo,\u201d Owen said, looking out at the quad. \u201cWould you pull the lever now?\u201d<\/p>\n I laughed, a short, sharp sound. \u201cI don\u2019t know.\u201d<\/p>\n Owen nodded. \u201cI don\u2019t know either. But\u2026\u201d He looked at me. \u201cNow I can explain\u00a0why<\/span>\u00a0I don\u2019t know. And I think that scares me more.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s better than being blind,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cIs it?\u201d Owen asked.<\/p>\n \u201cYes,\u201d I said, and I realized I meant it.<\/p>\n We walked down the stairs, heading in different directions\u2014him toward the engineering labs, me toward the bus stop to go visit my aunt. We had no clean answers. We carried the weight of every hypothetical death we had debated.<\/p>\n But as I watched the bus pull up, screeching to a halt, I knew that Whitaker was right. The world was a series of trolleys, careening down tracks we didn\u2019t build, toward people we didn\u2019t know. We couldn\u2019t stop them all. But we had to keep our eyes open. We had to be willing to see the collision.<\/p>\n I stepped onto the bus, found a seat, and opened my notebook. I turned to a fresh page.<\/p>\n What does justice require?<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n I didn\u2019t have the answer yet. But for the first time, I was ready to ask the question.<\/p>\n If you want more stories like this, or if you\u2019d like to share your thoughts about what you would have done in my situation, I\u2019d love to hear from you. Your perspective helps these stories reach more people, so don\u2019t be shy about commenting or sharing.<\/p>\n
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Option A:<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0Impose a total military lockdown. Weld doors shut if necessary. Force-treat the sick. This stops the spread in two weeks. Estimated deaths: 500. Civil liberties: Suspended.<\/span>
Option B:<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0Respect individual rights. Voluntary quarantine. Treatment by lottery. The virus burns through the population for three months. Estimated deaths: 5,000. Civil liberties: Intact.<\/span><\/p>\n
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