Walked to the scene of Saturday afternoon's Daytona International Speedway wreck.
I expected somber, quiet, reflective.
I'm an idiot.
Hundreds of fans approach the wall from the infield. All appear to have cell phone cameras. Many take turns posing in front of the fence.
Seven security men and a police officer stand along the wall, their backs to it.
A man lies down on the track and spreads his arms. The bank is steep, steep enough that when a man drops a water bottle it bounces hastily down the asphalt onto the infield grass. The woman with the man who lies on the track stands on the bottom and takes pictures.
A group of teenagers sees the man. They take turns lying on the track and hover over each other. A police officer makes them stand.
"I'm standing here now!" a woman says excitedly into her cell phone. "I'm right there!"
Another woman, with long brown hair and dark sunglasses, poses with her boyfriend next to the white wall.
"Better not do that," a police officer tells her. "That's fresh paint."
She poses anyway.