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It’s a moment of pain and perseverance captured through the lens of a camera.“My son’s head was out, and he was losing oxygen. He was slipping away,” mother of two, Loriell Forte, said.Forte had her son at home last year. The delivery was an intense experience. “They had to put an oxygen mask on me, so that way he wouldn’t stop breathing," she recalled.Photographer Elaine Baca was behind the scenes for the entire process, photographing the experience for the family.“She caught that moment of near death, but life at the same time. It’s a delicate balance,” said Forte.The family planned to frame some of the birth photos for their home, but one photo ended up on Forte's Facebook wall instead and it was posted by someone else.“I was upset at first. I was like, ‘How could they take my picture like that?’”The photo, showing Forte and her husband while she is in labor, was shared on countless Facebook accounts with a false caption. Each post manipulated the story with slightly different details."One page had more than 200,000 shares on that one image saying that, ‘My wife is suffering from coronavirus. The doctors say my wife is going to die and the baby is going to have Covid too, please pray and like and share,’” said Baca.Some posts claimed Forte’s baby had died. Others posed as her husband saying he’d lost his wife and now their baby is sick.“It blew my mind that it went from an innocent moment, a powerful moment depicting birth, to a representation of COVID,” said Forte.But what is the truth? The photo was taken a year before the pandemic started in January 2019, and Forte’s son is now almost 2 years old.“It has been used in ways of trying to get people to give money or trying to get people to look at something this certain way, and so at this point, if I could stop it, I would, because I know it’s not the truth,” said Forte.A true birth story is all Baca wanted. She documented Forte’s experience for a portrait series of African-American women giving birth because she says they are under-represented in birth stories. “Black women don’t see themselves often, so we were trying to show the beauty and the power of birth for these families," Baca said. "So, when I see that it’s not being used for that, it’s for fear, and for people to have a shocked reaction, shares and likes, it’s just really frustrating because it goes against everything we were trying to do.”Experts warn misinformers will post photos you see on your timeline every day to get clout online and to spread false information.Here’s how it works: once you like or share a photo, that account and that post will get views from other users. This can help the account get more followers or viewers in the future.The misinformer now has a wider audience to spread other false photos or articles.If you don’t check the source of what you share, you could be helping spread misinformation with the click of a button.“I was just reporting and reporting as fast as I could and as they would get taken down. I moved onto the next, but there were 10-15 of them, and each of them had more than 1 million followers,” said Baca.Even after trying to have the photos taken down, Forte and her husband’s faces are still being shared incorrectly on the internet today.“It definitely stripped the power I thought I had in that moment,” said Forte. “It’s like, ‘Ok I might have power in giving life, but when it comes to a keyboard or Instagram, I’m powerless."Both women agree the power lies with the public. A simple second to check the source of an image before you hit “share” could stop one more fake story in its digital tracks. 3625

INDIANAPOLIS -- A Bloomington, Indiana auto dealership was told to stop selling cars after the Indiana Secretary of State's Office discovered the business is not licensed in the state. The secretary of state's office issued a cease and desist Friday to H Auto for selling cars without a license and illegally issuing interim license plates.H Auto has been advertising in English and Chinese and allegedly may have been targeting Chinese students at Indiana University, according to the secretary of state. The advertisements say to make an appointment because H Auto does business by appointment only, but typically most dealerships do walk-in business.Some customers of H Auto allege that they were sold cars with fake New Jersey license plates.Others allege the auto dealer took their money but they never got a title for the vehicle they purchased.The secretary of state's office and Bloomington police are currently investigating.If you believe you may have been victimized by H Auto, call the secretary of state's office at 317-234-7190 1074

In mid-July, California’s department of transportation, known as CalTrans, was supposed to break ground on a highway construction project that was expected to take 18 days.The work was to repair and repave 800 feet of the busy 101 Freeway that connects San Francisco to the mainland, but the work never started because the project wrapped up in April, months before it was originally expected to begin."In the Bay Area, it was one of our busier years,” said CalTrans spokesman Bart Ney.The only reason contractors were able to start and complete the project months ahead of schedule was because of COVID-19.“We had to reduce traffic in normal situations by 30%, which was going to be very difficult,” said Ney. "In this case, we already had about a 40% traffic reduction because of people staying home for COVID-19.”In Colorado, something similar happened as plans to add an express lane through the main mountain corridor were able to accelerate a month.“It was over a 50% drop in traffic,” said Colorado Department of Traffic spokeswoman Presley Fowler.In April, the Federal Highway Administration says Americans drove 40% fewer miles than they did during the same time in 2019. It allowed projects in Nevada, Arizona, Wisconsin, Texas, Virginia, and Florida to all start ahead of schedule as well.The reduction in traffic didn’t only speed up work timelines, it also increased safety for workers as they could work during daylight hours that typically would have been off limits because of rush hour traffic. It also allowed states to save taxpayers millions in worker payroll.“You would quantify that impact in numbers in the tens of millions of dollars,” said Ney of the Highway 101 project.But as some states sped up their projects, others had to apply the brakes to theirs. The reduction in traffic volume hurt states in the pocket when it comes to gas tax revenue. Starting in March, states started seeing their biggest loss in gas tax revenue in decades as some had to defer billions in repair projects, saying they were short billion in funding.To help, Congress has been working on a transportation bill since road work was left out of the CARES Act, but that still has not passed.As states have reopened their economies, traffic volume has resumed to around 80% of its pre-COVID-19 levels. That will help with gas tax revenue. But at the same time, it will take some projects out of the fast lane. 2421

INDIANAPOLIS, Ind. (WRTV) -- A woman who comforted a college student during her last moments after being struck by a school bus Monday hopes her family knows everyone did all they could for her.Fatima Hassuneh, 18, was crossing the street at the intersection of University Boulevard and New York Street on the Indiana University, Purdue University of Indianapolis campus around 1:30 p.m. Monday when a bus attempting to make a left-hand turn struck her.School officials said the bus was under contract with Indianapolis Public Schools, but owned by Durham Transportation. Witnesses and college officials say Hassuneh had the right of way.PREVIOUS | IUPUI?student struck, killed by school busHassuneh was a pre-med student who aspired to become a doctor, according to a post by the college's Muslim Student Association. “Fatima, an aspiring doctor, was a sophomore in biology and was known for her kind heart and sense of humor,” the Muslim Student Association wrote. “She was a gift among us and has returned to her Lord. She was very active in our community and would often lead interfaith events. May Allah allow her to continue to reap the benefits of those deeds.”At the time of the crash, Alysa Schultz and her boyfriend were sitting at a red light at the very same intersection. She told WRTV that as soon as she saw what happened, her boyfriend started calling 911 while she rushed to check on Hassuneh.“As I was kind of kneeling there next to her, all she was doing was just holding her hand out, so I just grabbed it and held onto it,” Schultz said. “People were getting mad, saying, ‘Don’t touch her. Don’t move her.’ But at the same time, that one little bit of humanity – just hold on to her hand – that’s probably all she wanted.”Schultz said she didn’t know Hassuneh – but that her friends and classmates have messaged her since telling her what a wonderful person she was.“I had a lot of people message me on Facebook saying how awesome of a person she was and how beautiful and smart and driven and how involved she was,” Schultz said. “I really wish I would have known her.”Schultz, a former Indiana University student herself, said she hopes Hassuneh’s family can take some comfort from all of the efforts made to save her.“I hope that her family knows that there were six people calling the police, four people running around the corner to grab any police who were nearby,” Shultz said. “Everybody was stopping and blocking off the road so that no one could come near the situation. Everyone at IUPUI was like a family doing everything they possibly could for her, and I really hope that’s comforting to the family.”An Islamic funeral prayer, a janaza, was planned for Tuesday night for Hassuneh at the Alhuda Foundation in Fishers. As of Tuesday afternoon, police were still investigating the crash. 2847

In many rural communities, entire cities often rely on one business to support the economy, and when those businesses leave, it leaves the community devastated.For the town of Luke, Maryland, its paper mill went out of business last summer, and the deep financial impact is being felt by families and businesses throughout the region.“I could hear that mill day and night, sitting right here. You knew everything was alright. Listen up there now,” said former mill worker Paul Coleman, while looking out the window towards what used to be the noisy mill. “Pretty quiet, isn’t it? Pretty quiet. That’s eerie."Yet, it’s the silence that now haunts Coleman every day. “I had no sights, no goals on retiring. I would’ve kept on working as long as I could,” said the father of four daughters.For nearly 30 years, he worked alongside hundreds of people inside the Luke Paper Mill. He did several jobs over the years, but much of his time was spent as an electrician.“All my family has worked in there,” said Coleman. “The mill was the lifeblood of the community."The mill is nestled into the hills on the Maryland-West Virginia border. For the small towns around it, this big business was really the only business.“Everything was centered around that paper mill,” said Coleman.But last summer, this electrician got the news he couldn’t believe.“He said, ‘The mill’s closing.’ I thought he was kidding,” Coleman recalled. The closure was real, and almost immediately, his unemployment benefits fell short, and eventually, they stopped.“I thank God I had my 401K, which I had to dip into, so we’ve had to live off of that,” he said.Still, the bills piled up, especially the health insurance bills. “Reality is what it is. I know no one is going to want to hire a 62-year-old electrician,” said Coleman.On his fridge are several magnets from the Caribbean islands the family vacationed to over the years. We asked him about those trips, to which he replied, “Anything like that—it’s out of the question. You have to live within your means."The most painful adjustment to Coleman is not having what he needs for his daughter, who is disabled.The family was just able to fix their handicapped van, so they could bring his 21-year-old daughter home from weeks in the hospital. But now, more problems for this dedicated father.“My chairlift is broken down,” said Coleman. "That’s the chair lift we use to get her up and down the steps. I called the guy today and it’ll be ,000 to put a new one in. Where am I gonna get that?”So, each day, he gets to work, fixing what he can.“I don’t claim to be the best of anything,” said Coleman. “I’m not the best electrician, but you don’t have to be, you just have to keep moving regardless of what you’re dealt.”At the height of its operation, the mill employed more than 2,000 people. As technology increased and production decreased, fewer people were needed inside the mill, but even still, when the mill shut its doors, 700 people were left without jobs. That loss extended far past the mill—the entire community felt the pain of this closure.“It went from seven days a week to not really knowing what you’re doing tomorrow,” said Richard Moran, a man born and raised in Allegany County and who supplied coal to the mill for decades. “Lucky to get a 40 hour week now."Moran was forced to lay off dozens of workers when the mill shut down. Months later, his family’s legacy is hanging on by a thread.“Right now, we’re doing odd jobs basically, whatever we can pick up on the side,” he said.He’s not only lost income, he’s lost the future he dreamed of. “I know my kids won’t stick around here," he said. "There’s nothing for them here.”Coleman is worried for the future, too. “I think there’s just an attitude of hopelessness and helplessness that’s here,” he said.Both men agree that attitude is easily fueled by no new jobs and no way to relocate for most living in this rural community.“That’s not an option for me. This is my home, my entire family’s here,” said Coleman, as his granddaughter and two of his daughters all sat in the next room over.The United Steel Workers Local Union President Gregory Harvey said these struggles are only the beginning.“Unemployment ran out, insurance ran out, so now it impacts the area," he said. "Now, there’s people not spending money like they were spending money before."He’s working to get as many of his members and neighbors employed as he can, but the jobs in town are low-paying.“These guys were used to making ,000 a year, and now they’re making ,000. That’s a hit,” said Harvey, a third-generation paper maker himself.Still, the community holds onto hope that this closure isn’t the end. “My hope is that somebody buys this mill and reopens it back up, and if I get the opportunity to go back and work in a heartbeat, do I have to be an electrician? No. I’d go back and shovel a ditch or anything, whatever it took,” said Coleman about wanting to continue providing for his family.His plea like so many of his neighbors: a call to someone—to anyone—to rescue this town and these families.“You’re not investing in concrete. You’re not investing in these buildings. You’re investing in a workforce like no other,” said Harvey. 5223