Uvalde, Texas has been in the national spotlight since a teenage gunman stormed a local elementary school, killing 19 children and two teachers.
But it's not only journalists who have descended on the quiet Texas town.
Warning: This story contains content that may be distressing
On what was supposed to have been the first day of their summer break, the first two of 19 children set to be laid to rest have been honoured.
A gathering for 10-year-old Amerie Jo Garza took place at Hillcrest Memorial Funeral Home, directly across from Robb Elementary.
Maite Rodriguez, also 10, was farewelled at the town's other funeral home.
People have travelled from across the United States, enduring blistering temperatures, to pay their respects at memorials at Robb Elementary School and in the town square.
"This 18-year-old went out and bought a gun for his 18th birthday," said Rhapsody Weaver, a local mum whose daughter is 10 years old, the same age as many of the victims.
"He cannot smoke and he cannot drink. But what can he do for his 18th birthday? Oh, he can buy a gun."
The tragedy has shaken the tight-knit community of roughly 15,000.
However, Ms Weaver fears her anger at how easily a teenager purchases a military-grade assault rifle might not be the majority view.
"I'm pretty upset that the feeling around here is split," she said.
Americans are painfully familiar with the horror of mass shootings and the hollow words that follow them.
While supporters of gun safety reforms hope the killing of more than a dozen third- and fourth-graders will spur politicians to act, they're already facing resistance.
Around a third of American adults say they currently own a gun but many more are open to the possibility of buying a firearm in the future.
And, in a fiercely pro-gun state like Texas, which recently welcomed the gun lobby group the National Rifle Association days after a massacre, a repeat feels all but assured.
Another Texas town marred by tragedy
Nearly five years ago, less than three hours' drive from Uvalde, a twin tragedy unfolded in Sutherland Springs, a rural town to the east of San Antonio.
In November 2017, a 26-year-old gunman — wearing black tactical gear and a face mask — drove to the First Baptist Church and unleashed terror on its congregation during Sunday service.
"We start hearing what we now know was gunfire, but I immediately thought it was firecrackers," said Julie Workman, who was in attendance with her sons, Kris and Kyle.
"We hear one of our church members yell out, 'We're taking on fire', and I hear one of our younger girls scream out that 'I'm hit'."
Ms Workman watched the gunman's feet as he moved methodically through the pews, firing a semi-automatic rifle.
"The whole time I'm praying, 'God, you've got to stop this'," she said.
Her older son was shot in the back at close range, permanently paralysing him, while the other escaped by climbing over bodies and crawling under pews to safety.
The gunman was eventually shot outside the church by a local man, but not before he killed 26 people, in the deadliest mass shooting in Texas's history.
Terrie Smith, who runs a taco stand across the road from the church, watched the attack unfold and knew many of the victims.
"We used to leave the doors open and not worry about somebody coming in," she said.
"Now doors are locked."
Ms Smith said many residents purchased guns after the shooting, hoping to protect themselves.
She said she broke down when she saw the news about Robb Elementary School and now she wants automatic weapons — which were used in both attacks — banned.
"When I started hearing about the children and the count started going higher and higher, [it] brought back a lot of flashbacks, a lot of emotion," she said.
"Weapons like that should be used when there's a war going on."
Curbing gun violence in the Lone Star State
There have been six major mass shootings in Texas since Republican Governor Gregg Abbott was elected seven and a half years ago.
He condemned each incident — using words like "horrific", "evil" and "senseless" — and responded with prayer.
Rather than tightening gun laws, however, he has consistently loosened them, shepherding in "open carry" laws that allow his state's nearly 30 million residents to tote handguns in public spaces and on university campuses.
Last year, he signed a bill that lets anyone over the age of 21 do so without a permit.
After the Sutherland Springs massacre, Governor Abbott declared the best way to prevent mass shootings was "by using the forces of God".
After Uvalde, he blamed "mental health".
In the week since, he has faced increasing pressure to consider lesser measures such as universal background checks, which many Republicans have resisted.
On Friday, he opted to visit the grieving town, rather than attending the National Rifle Association's convention in Houston with former president Donald Trump and Republican Senator Ted Cruz.
"From the benefit of hindsight, where I'm sitting now, of course it was not the right decision," Steven McCraw, the director of the Texas Department of Public Safety.
"It was the wrong decision. Period."
What comes next for Uvalde?
Doug Swimmer, the pastor of The Potter's House, a church in Uvalde, said his congregants — some of whom lost children — want answers but need time to heal.
"It has turned us upside down," he said.
"It has broken our hearts and has devastated this community forever."
Two people who know how hard that process can be are Columbine massacre survivors Michele Williams and Lauren Bohn, whose Colorado high school was the site of a mass shooting and attempted bombing in 1999.
They were among those who made the pilgrimage south to offer comfort to survivors and their families and friends.
"You almost do become numb to the violence and that is devastating," said Ms Bohn, who cried while talking to locals at the makeshift memorial in centre of town comprised of 21 wooden crosses — one for each victim.
They have quickly been surrounded by an array of flowers, bright balloons and stuffed children's toys.
She doesn't think Uvalde will be the last town to experience the aching grief she has carried for more than two decades.
"There's always hope. But, unfortunately, I don't think this is the end of this narrative," she said.
"And that is devastating to say."
