By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

He had just walked across the graduation stage with a diploma in hand and a future wide open. Aiden Alexander, 18, was dreaming of summer plans and new beginnings. But within days, celebration turned to mourning—replaced by the deafening silence of tragedy that now echoes across the Pinconning community.

On Thursday afternoon, Aiden was simply doing what big brothers do—driving his 16-year-old sister, Halen, home from school. Their dog, Moose, was riding along. It was supposed to be an ordinary ride on Mable Street. But in a flash, everything changed.

A pickup truck driven by a 68-year-old man veered across the center line and slammed head-on into Aiden’s vehicle. The impact was devastating.

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

He had just walked across the graduation stage with a diploma in hand and a future wide open. Aiden Alexander, 18, was dreaming of summer plans and new beginnings. But within days, celebration turned to mourning—replaced by the deafening silence of tragedy that now echoes across the Pinconning community.

On Thursday afternoon, Aiden was simply doing what big brothers do—driving his 16-year-old sister, Halen, home from school. Their dog, Moose, was riding along. It was supposed to be an ordinary ride on Mable Street. But in a flash, everything changed.

A pickup truck driven by a 68-year-old man veered across the center line and slammed head-on into Aiden’s vehicle. The impact was devastating.

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

He had just walked across the graduation stage with a diploma in hand and a future wide open. Aiden Alexander, 18, was dreaming of summer plans and new beginnings. But within days, celebration turned to mourning—replaced by the deafening silence of tragedy that now echoes across the Pinconning community.

On Thursday afternoon, Aiden was simply doing what big brothers do—driving his 16-year-old sister, Halen, home from school. Their dog, Moose, was riding along. It was supposed to be an ordinary ride on Mable Street. But in a flash, everything changed.

A pickup truck driven by a 68-year-old man veered across the center line and slammed head-on into Aiden’s vehicle. The impact was devastating.

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

He had just walked across the graduation stage with a diploma in hand and a future wide open. Aiden Alexander, 18, was dreaming of summer plans and new beginnings. But within days, celebration turned to mourning—replaced by the deafening silence of tragedy that now echoes across the Pinconning community.

On Thursday afternoon, Aiden was simply doing what big brothers do—driving his 16-year-old sister, Halen, home from school. Their dog, Moose, was riding along. It was supposed to be an ordinary ride on Mable Street. But in a flash, everything changed.

A pickup truck driven by a 68-year-old man veered across the center line and slammed head-on into Aiden’s vehicle. The impact was devastating.

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

He had just walked across the graduation stage with a diploma in hand and a future wide open. Aiden Alexander, 18, was dreaming of summer plans and new beginnings. But within days, celebration turned to mourning—replaced by the deafening silence of tragedy that now echoes across the Pinconning community.

On Thursday afternoon, Aiden was simply doing what big brothers do—driving his 16-year-old sister, Halen, home from school. Their dog, Moose, was riding along. It was supposed to be an ordinary ride on Mable Street. But in a flash, everything changed.

A pickup truck driven by a 68-year-old man veered across the center line and slammed head-on into Aiden’s vehicle. The impact was devastating.

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

He had just walked across the graduation stage with a diploma in hand and a future wide open. Aiden Alexander, 18, was dreaming of summer plans and new beginnings. But within days, celebration turned to mourning—replaced by the deafening silence of tragedy that now echoes across the Pinconning community.

On Thursday afternoon, Aiden was simply doing what big brothers do—driving his 16-year-old sister, Halen, home from school. Their dog, Moose, was riding along. It was supposed to be an ordinary ride on Mable Street. But in a flash, everything changed.

A pickup truck driven by a 68-year-old man veered across the center line and slammed head-on into Aiden’s vehicle. The impact was devastating.

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

He had just walked across the graduation stage with a diploma in hand and a future wide open. Aiden Alexander, 18, was dreaming of summer plans and new beginnings. But within days, celebration turned to mourning—replaced by the deafening silence of tragedy that now echoes across the Pinconning community.

On Thursday afternoon, Aiden was simply doing what big brothers do—driving his 16-year-old sister, Halen, home from school. Their dog, Moose, was riding along. It was supposed to be an ordinary ride on Mable Street. But in a flash, everything changed.

A pickup truck driven by a 68-year-old man veered across the center line and slammed head-on into Aiden’s vehicle. The impact was devastating.

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

He had just walked across the graduation stage with a diploma in hand and a future wide open. Aiden Alexander, 18, was dreaming of summer plans and new beginnings. But within days, celebration turned to mourning—replaced by the deafening silence of tragedy that now echoes across the Pinconning community.

On Thursday afternoon, Aiden was simply doing what big brothers do—driving his 16-year-old sister, Halen, home from school. Their dog, Moose, was riding along. It was supposed to be an ordinary ride on Mable Street. But in a flash, everything changed.

A pickup truck driven by a 68-year-old man veered across the center line and slammed head-on into Aiden’s vehicle. The impact was devastating.

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

He had just walked across the graduation stage with a diploma in hand and a future wide open. Aiden Alexander, 18, was dreaming of summer plans and new beginnings. But within days, celebration turned to mourning—replaced by the deafening silence of tragedy that now echoes across the Pinconning community.

On Thursday afternoon, Aiden was simply doing what big brothers do—driving his 16-year-old sister, Halen, home from school. Their dog, Moose, was riding along. It was supposed to be an ordinary ride on Mable Street. But in a flash, everything changed.

A pickup truck driven by a 68-year-old man veered across the center line and slammed head-on into Aiden’s vehicle. The impact was devastating.

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

He had just walked across the graduation stage with a diploma in hand and a future wide open. Aiden Alexander, 18, was dreaming of summer plans and new beginnings. But within days, celebration turned to mourning—replaced by the deafening silence of tragedy that now echoes across the Pinconning community.

On Thursday afternoon, Aiden was simply doing what big brothers do—driving his 16-year-old sister, Halen, home from school. Their dog, Moose, was riding along. It was supposed to be an ordinary ride on Mable Street. But in a flash, everything changed.

A pickup truck driven by a 68-year-old man veered across the center line and slammed head-on into Aiden’s vehicle. The impact was devastating.

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

He had just walked across the graduation stage with a diploma in hand and a future wide open. Aiden Alexander, 18, was dreaming of summer plans and new beginnings. But within days, celebration turned to mourning—replaced by the deafening silence of tragedy that now echoes across the Pinconning community.

On Thursday afternoon, Aiden was simply doing what big brothers do—driving his 16-year-old sister, Halen, home from school. Their dog, Moose, was riding along. It was supposed to be an ordinary ride on Mable Street. But in a flash, everything changed.

A pickup truck driven by a 68-year-old man veered across the center line and slammed head-on into Aiden’s vehicle. The impact was devastating.

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

He had just walked across the graduation stage with a diploma in hand and a future wide open. Aiden Alexander, 18, was dreaming of summer plans and new beginnings. But within days, celebration turned to mourning—replaced by the deafening silence of tragedy that now echoes across the Pinconning community.

On Thursday afternoon, Aiden was simply doing what big brothers do—driving his 16-year-old sister, Halen, home from school. Their dog, Moose, was riding along. It was supposed to be an ordinary ride on Mable Street. But in a flash, everything changed.

A pickup truck driven by a 68-year-old man veered across the center line and slammed head-on into Aiden’s vehicle. The impact was devastating.

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

He had just walked across the graduation stage with a diploma in hand and a future wide open. Aiden Alexander, 18, was dreaming of summer plans and new beginnings. But within days, celebration turned to mourning—replaced by the deafening silence of tragedy that now echoes across the Pinconning community.

On Thursday afternoon, Aiden was simply doing what big brothers do—driving his 16-year-old sister, Halen, home from school. Their dog, Moose, was riding along. It was supposed to be an ordinary ride on Mable Street. But in a flash, everything changed.

A pickup truck driven by a 68-year-old man veered across the center line and slammed head-on into Aiden’s vehicle. The impact was devastating.

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

He had just walked across the graduation stage with a diploma in hand and a future wide open. Aiden Alexander, 18, was dreaming of summer plans and new beginnings. But within days, celebration turned to mourning—replaced by the deafening silence of tragedy that now echoes across the Pinconning community.

On Thursday afternoon, Aiden was simply doing what big brothers do—driving his 16-year-old sister, Halen, home from school. Their dog, Moose, was riding along. It was supposed to be an ordinary ride on Mable Street. But in a flash, everything changed.

A pickup truck driven by a 68-year-old man veered across the center line and slammed head-on into Aiden’s vehicle. The impact was devastating.

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

He had just walked across the graduation stage with a diploma in hand and a future wide open. Aiden Alexander, 18, was dreaming of summer plans and new beginnings. But within days, celebration turned to mourning—replaced by the deafening silence of tragedy that now echoes across the Pinconning community.

On Thursday afternoon, Aiden was simply doing what big brothers do—driving his 16-year-old sister, Halen, home from school. Their dog, Moose, was riding along. It was supposed to be an ordinary ride on Mable Street. But in a flash, everything changed.

A pickup truck driven by a 68-year-old man veered across the center line and slammed head-on into Aiden’s vehicle. The impact was devastating.

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

He had just walked across the graduation stage with a diploma in hand and a future wide open. Aiden Alexander, 18, was dreaming of summer plans and new beginnings. But within days, celebration turned to mourning—replaced by the deafening silence of tragedy that now echoes across the Pinconning community.

On Thursday afternoon, Aiden was simply doing what big brothers do—driving his 16-year-old sister, Halen, home from school. Their dog, Moose, was riding along. It was supposed to be an ordinary ride on Mable Street. But in a flash, everything changed.

A pickup truck driven by a 68-year-old man veered across the center line and slammed head-on into Aiden’s vehicle. The impact was devastating.

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

He had just walked across the graduation stage with a diploma in hand and a future wide open. Aiden Alexander, 18, was dreaming of summer plans and new beginnings. But within days, celebration turned to mourning—replaced by the deafening silence of tragedy that now echoes across the Pinconning community.

On Thursday afternoon, Aiden was simply doing what big brothers do—driving his 16-year-old sister, Halen, home from school. Their dog, Moose, was riding along. It was supposed to be an ordinary ride on Mable Street. But in a flash, everything changed.

A pickup truck driven by a 68-year-old man veered across the center line and slammed head-on into Aiden’s vehicle. The impact was devastating.

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

He had just walked across the graduation stage with a diploma in hand and a future wide open. Aiden Alexander, 18, was dreaming of summer plans and new beginnings. But within days, celebration turned to mourning—replaced by the deafening silence of tragedy that now echoes across the Pinconning community.

On Thursday afternoon, Aiden was simply doing what big brothers do—driving his 16-year-old sister, Halen, home from school. Their dog, Moose, was riding along. It was supposed to be an ordinary ride on Mable Street. But in a flash, everything changed.

A pickup truck driven by a 68-year-old man veered across the center line and slammed head-on into Aiden’s vehicle. The impact was devastating.

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

He had just walked across the graduation stage with a diploma in hand and a future wide open. Aiden Alexander, 18, was dreaming of summer plans and new beginnings. But within days, celebration turned to mourning—replaced by the deafening silence of tragedy that now echoes across the Pinconning community.

On Thursday afternoon, Aiden was simply doing what big brothers do—driving his 16-year-old sister, Halen, home from school. Their dog, Moose, was riding along. It was supposed to be an ordinary ride on Mable Street. But in a flash, everything changed.

A pickup truck driven by a 68-year-old man veered across the center line and slammed head-on into Aiden’s vehicle. The impact was devastating.

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

He had just walked across the graduation stage with a diploma in hand and a future wide open. Aiden Alexander, 18, was dreaming of summer plans and new beginnings. But within days, celebration turned to mourning—replaced by the deafening silence of tragedy that now echoes across the Pinconning community.

On Thursday afternoon, Aiden was simply doing what big brothers do—driving his 16-year-old sister, Halen, home from school. Their dog, Moose, was riding along. It was supposed to be an ordinary ride on Mable Street. But in a flash, everything changed.

A pickup truck driven by a 68-year-old man veered across the center line and slammed head-on into Aiden’s vehicle. The impact was devastating.

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

He had just walked across the graduation stage with a diploma in hand and a future wide open. Aiden Alexander, 18, was dreaming of summer plans and new beginnings. But within days, celebration turned to mourning—replaced by the deafening silence of tragedy that now echoes across the Pinconning community.

On Thursday afternoon, Aiden was simply doing what big brothers do—driving his 16-year-old sister, Halen, home from school. Their dog, Moose, was riding along. It was supposed to be an ordinary ride on Mable Street. But in a flash, everything changed.

A pickup truck driven by a 68-year-old man veered across the center line and slammed head-on into Aiden’s vehicle. The impact was devastating.

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

He had just walked across the graduation stage with a diploma in hand and a future wide open. Aiden Alexander, 18, was dreaming of summer plans and new beginnings. But within days, celebration turned to mourning—replaced by the deafening silence of tragedy that now echoes across the Pinconning community.

On Thursday afternoon, Aiden was simply doing what big brothers do—driving his 16-year-old sister, Halen, home from school. Their dog, Moose, was riding along. It was supposed to be an ordinary ride on Mable Street. But in a flash, everything changed.

A pickup truck driven by a 68-year-old man veered across the center line and slammed head-on into Aiden’s vehicle. The impact was devastating.

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

He had just walked across the graduation stage with a diploma in hand and a future wide open. Aiden Alexander, 18, was dreaming of summer plans and new beginnings. But within days, celebration turned to mourning—replaced by the deafening silence of tragedy that now echoes across the Pinconning community.

On Thursday afternoon, Aiden was simply doing what big brothers do—driving his 16-year-old sister, Halen, home from school. Their dog, Moose, was riding along. It was supposed to be an ordinary ride on Mable Street. But in a flash, everything changed.

A pickup truck driven by a 68-year-old man veered across the center line and slammed head-on into Aiden’s vehicle. The impact was devastating.

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

He had just walked across the graduation stage with a diploma in hand and a future wide open. Aiden Alexander, 18, was dreaming of summer plans and new beginnings. But within days, celebration turned to mourning—replaced by the deafening silence of tragedy that now echoes across the Pinconning community.

On Thursday afternoon, Aiden was simply doing what big brothers do—driving his 16-year-old sister, Halen, home from school. Their dog, Moose, was riding along. It was supposed to be an ordinary ride on Mable Street. But in a flash, everything changed.

A pickup truck driven by a 68-year-old man veered across the center line and slammed head-on into Aiden’s vehicle. The impact was devastating.

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

He had just walked across the graduation stage with a diploma in hand and a future wide open. Aiden Alexander, 18, was dreaming of summer plans and new beginnings. But within days, celebration turned to mourning—replaced by the deafening silence of tragedy that now echoes across the Pinconning community.

On Thursday afternoon, Aiden was simply doing what big brothers do—driving his 16-year-old sister, Halen, home from school. Their dog, Moose, was riding along. It was supposed to be an ordinary ride on Mable Street. But in a flash, everything changed.

A pickup truck driven by a 68-year-old man veered across the center line and slammed head-on into Aiden’s vehicle. The impact was devastating.

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

He had just walked across the graduation stage with a diploma in hand and a future wide open. Aiden Alexander, 18, was dreaming of summer plans and new beginnings. But within days, celebration turned to mourning—replaced by the deafening silence of tragedy that now echoes across the Pinconning community.

On Thursday afternoon, Aiden was simply doing what big brothers do—driving his 16-year-old sister, Halen, home from school. Their dog, Moose, was riding along. It was supposed to be an ordinary ride on Mable Street. But in a flash, everything changed.

A pickup truck driven by a 68-year-old man veered across the center line and slammed head-on into Aiden’s vehicle. The impact was devastating.

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

He had just walked across the graduation stage with a diploma in hand and a future wide open. Aiden Alexander, 18, was dreaming of summer plans and new beginnings. But within days, celebration turned to mourning—replaced by the deafening silence of tragedy that now echoes across the Pinconning community.

On Thursday afternoon, Aiden was simply doing what big brothers do—driving his 16-year-old sister, Halen, home from school. Their dog, Moose, was riding along. It was supposed to be an ordinary ride on Mable Street. But in a flash, everything changed.

A pickup truck driven by a 68-year-old man veered across the center line and slammed head-on into Aiden’s vehicle. The impact was devastating.

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

He had just walked across the graduation stage with a diploma in hand and a future wide open. Aiden Alexander, 18, was dreaming of summer plans and new beginnings. But within days, celebration turned to mourning—replaced by the deafening silence of tragedy that now echoes across the Pinconning community.

On Thursday afternoon, Aiden was simply doing what big brothers do—driving his 16-year-old sister, Halen, home from school. Their dog, Moose, was riding along. It was supposed to be an ordinary ride on Mable Street. But in a flash, everything changed.

A pickup truck driven by a 68-year-old man veered across the center line and slammed head-on into Aiden’s vehicle. The impact was devastating.

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

He had just walked across the graduation stage with a diploma in hand and a future wide open. Aiden Alexander, 18, was dreaming of summer plans and new beginnings. But within days, celebration turned to mourning—replaced by the deafening silence of tragedy that now echoes across the Pinconning community.

On Thursday afternoon, Aiden was simply doing what big brothers do—driving his 16-year-old sister, Halen, home from school. Their dog, Moose, was riding along. It was supposed to be an ordinary ride on Mable Street. But in a flash, everything changed.

A pickup truck driven by a 68-year-old man veered across the center line and slammed head-on into Aiden’s vehicle. The impact was devastating.

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

He had just walked across the graduation stage with a diploma in hand and a future wide open. Aiden Alexander, 18, was dreaming of summer plans and new beginnings. But within days, celebration turned to mourning—replaced by the deafening silence of tragedy that now echoes across the Pinconning community.

On Thursday afternoon, Aiden was simply doing what big brothers do—driving his 16-year-old sister, Halen, home from school. Their dog, Moose, was riding along. It was supposed to be an ordinary ride on Mable Street. But in a flash, everything changed.

A pickup truck driven by a 68-year-old man veered across the center line and slammed head-on into Aiden’s vehicle. The impact was devastating.

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

He had just walked across the graduation stage with a diploma in hand and a future wide open. Aiden Alexander, 18, was dreaming of summer plans and new beginnings. But within days, celebration turned to mourning—replaced by the deafening silence of tragedy that now echoes across the Pinconning community.

On Thursday afternoon, Aiden was simply doing what big brothers do—driving his 16-year-old sister, Halen, home from school. Their dog, Moose, was riding along. It was supposed to be an ordinary ride on Mable Street. But in a flash, everything changed.

A pickup truck driven by a 68-year-old man veered across the center line and slammed head-on into Aiden’s vehicle. The impact was devastating.

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

He had just walked across the graduation stage with a diploma in hand and a future wide open. Aiden Alexander, 18, was dreaming of summer plans and new beginnings. But within days, celebration turned to mourning—replaced by the deafening silence of tragedy that now echoes across the Pinconning community.

On Thursday afternoon, Aiden was simply doing what big brothers do—driving his 16-year-old sister, Halen, home from school. Their dog, Moose, was riding along. It was supposed to be an ordinary ride on Mable Street. But in a flash, everything changed.

A pickup truck driven by a 68-year-old man veered across the center line and slammed head-on into Aiden’s vehicle. The impact was devastating.

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

He had just walked across the graduation stage with a diploma in hand and a future wide open. Aiden Alexander, 18, was dreaming of summer plans and new beginnings. But within days, celebration turned to mourning—replaced by the deafening silence of tragedy that now echoes across the Pinconning community.

On Thursday afternoon, Aiden was simply doing what big brothers do—driving his 16-year-old sister, Halen, home from school. Their dog, Moose, was riding along. It was supposed to be an ordinary ride on Mable Street. But in a flash, everything changed.

A pickup truck driven by a 68-year-old man veered across the center line and slammed head-on into Aiden’s vehicle. The impact was devastating.

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

He had just walked across the graduation stage with a diploma in hand and a future wide open. Aiden Alexander, 18, was dreaming of summer plans and new beginnings. But within days, celebration turned to mourning—replaced by the deafening silence of tragedy that now echoes across the Pinconning community.

On Thursday afternoon, Aiden was simply doing what big brothers do—driving his 16-year-old sister, Halen, home from school. Their dog, Moose, was riding along. It was supposed to be an ordinary ride on Mable Street. But in a flash, everything changed.

A pickup truck driven by a 68-year-old man veered across the center line and slammed head-on into Aiden’s vehicle. The impact was devastating.

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

He had just walked across the graduation stage with a diploma in hand and a future wide open. Aiden Alexander, 18, was dreaming of summer plans and new beginnings. But within days, celebration turned to mourning—replaced by the deafening silence of tragedy that now echoes across the Pinconning community.

On Thursday afternoon, Aiden was simply doing what big brothers do—driving his 16-year-old sister, Halen, home from school. Their dog, Moose, was riding along. It was supposed to be an ordinary ride on Mable Street. But in a flash, everything changed.

A pickup truck driven by a 68-year-old man veered across the center line and slammed head-on into Aiden’s vehicle. The impact was devastating.

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

He had just walked across the graduation stage with a diploma in hand and a future wide open. Aiden Alexander, 18, was dreaming of summer plans and new beginnings. But within days, celebration turned to mourning—replaced by the deafening silence of tragedy that now echoes across the Pinconning community.

On Thursday afternoon, Aiden was simply doing what big brothers do—driving his 16-year-old sister, Halen, home from school. Their dog, Moose, was riding along. It was supposed to be an ordinary ride on Mable Street. But in a flash, everything changed.

A pickup truck driven by a 68-year-old man veered across the center line and slammed head-on into Aiden’s vehicle. The impact was devastating.

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

He had just walked across the graduation stage with a diploma in hand and a future wide open. Aiden Alexander, 18, was dreaming of summer plans and new beginnings. But within days, celebration turned to mourning—replaced by the deafening silence of tragedy that now echoes across the Pinconning community.

On Thursday afternoon, Aiden was simply doing what big brothers do—driving his 16-year-old sister, Halen, home from school. Their dog, Moose, was riding along. It was supposed to be an ordinary ride on Mable Street. But in a flash, everything changed.

A pickup truck driven by a 68-year-old man veered across the center line and slammed head-on into Aiden’s vehicle. The impact was devastating.

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.

Aiden was pronounced dead at the scene.

Halen, who had just finished her school day, was found critically injured in the wreckage, suffering a broken collarbone and severe internal injuries. She remains hospitalized. Their beloved dog didn’t survive either.

Emergency responders arrived to find all three occupants—Aiden, Halen, and the elderly driver—unconscious and trapped. It was a scene no parent, no sibling, no friend should ever have to witness.

Aiden’s mother learned of the crash not through a phone call, but from her daughter’s Apple Watch. It triggered a crash detection alert. She tried to call—over and over—but no one answered. The dread set in before the official news arrived.

By Friday, the halls of Pinconning High School, where Aiden had walked just days earlier in cap and gown, felt unbearably heavy. Desks sat too still. Friends tried to make sense of the impossible. Laughter felt foreign.

Superintendent Andy Kowalczyk fought back emotion as he remembered Aiden. “They were the kind of students you wanted in your class. Kind, respectful,” he said, voice tight with grief. “It’s tough. It really is.”

Counselors and crisis teams were already in place Friday morning, trying to help students and staff process the incomprehensible loss. But nothing could erase the question haunting everyone: How can someone so full of life be gone so fast?

Aiden had been planning to enter the trades. He loved archery. He was goofy, warm, and eager to learn. Just days ago, he’d asked his cousin’s husband for advice about his career path. “We just talked,” his cousin Monica Rabie recalled. “He had questions. He wanted to work hard.”

Now, instead of setting up tables for his graduation party, the family is preparing for a funeral.

“His graduation party will end up being his funeral,” Rabie said, her voice cracking. “Which is… super sad.”

Aiden’s sister, Halen, hasn’t even been told yet. She doesn’t know her big brother didn’t survive. She doesn’t know their dog is gone. The family is waiting—praying for the right moment. But when is there ever a right moment to shatter someone’s heart?

The community, stunned and aching, has rallied. A GoFundMe campaign was quickly launched to help cover funeral costs and assist with Halen’s ongoing care. Donations have poured in alongside messages of love and heartbreak.

“Aiden was sent to heaven & Halen is in critical care with many surgeries ahead of her,” the page reads. “The family is devastated & heartbroken. We hope to raise funds for anything the family might need at this time.”

Aiden’s funeral will be held Thursday, June 12, at The Snow Funeral Home in Saginaw. Visitation is set for the day before. Cremation will follow, in keeping with the family’s wishes.

Those who knew him are still trying to comprehend the hole he’s left behind. His cousin remembers the way he could light up a room—not with attention-seeking bravado, but with an easy, contagious spirit. “Just a goofy kid,” she said. “A good kid. Typical boy, full of dreams.”

Now those dreams have been cut short. Aiden’s story is one of promise halted, of ordinary moments turned extraordinary by the suddenness of loss. His empty chair at the dinner table. The absence of his laugh in the hallway. The summer that will never be.

Back at the school, Kowalczyk and the district’s staff continue to urge students to seek support. The pain of this tragedy, they know, won’t pass quickly. But neither will the memory of who Aiden was.

Because some lives, even when short, leave an impact that lasts far longer.

And as Halen fights to heal—physically and emotionally—the community holds its breath with her.

One family. One town. One boy taken too soon.

And the silence that follows, impossibly loud.