The Last Light: M— and Noah

Presenter: For The Last Light, KEPW producer Echo Sherman:

Echo Sherman (KEPW, The Last Light, producer): Today we speak the names of two young people who were lost to unthinkable violence. Their names were M— and Noah, and though the world may try to remember them only as victims, as addicts, as homeless, as statistics, we are here to remember them as people, as love, as light.

[00:00:26] On May 20, 2025, in Oakridge, Oregon, a tip led police to the bodies of M— and Noah. The details are horrifying. They were tortured, stabbed, strangled, and shot, then dumped, like trash. But let me say this plainly: They were not trash. They were not waste, not disposable. They were not defined by their houselessness, their addictions, or their struggles. They were human beings. They loved, they laughed, they tried, even when the systems around them gave them very little to try for.

[00:01:05] Let me tell you what I know about them. I first met Noah when he was just 14. He was fierce, strong-willed in the kind of way that told you he had already survived more than most grown adults ever will. Life had taught him to be skeptical, stubborn, and fast on his feet.

But underneath was a kid who still wanted something more: Connection. Painting. Love. When he broke his collarbone and his arm and he landed in the ICU, I stayed with him every moment I could, tending to his needs, trying to show him that someone would be there no matter what. And you know what? It only took him three days before he discharged himself against medical advice. Because he wanted to be free. Because his spirit was like that, untamed, even in pain. He wasn’t easy to parent, but he was worth it.

[00:02:03] M—: I don’t know her as well. But I know this. Every report I’ve heard paints a picture of a girl who is sweet, kind, and soft around the edges, even when life hardened her in the middle.

She was when trying, wanting to be better, trying to do better, trying to support the person she loved. She only wanted a family. And that person was Noah, and Noah loved her. That much was clear to everyone who saw them together: Two people walking through hell, hand in hand, looking for a way out. Maybe not always in the ways that others would understand.

But if you’ve ever known addiction, if you’ve ever known poverty or trauma, you know that love is sometimes the only thing that keeps you alive. That love, even when tangled in pain, is still sacred.

They were killed together. They watched each other die.

[00:03:00] Let that sit with you for a moment. Tortured. Strangled. Shot. And dumped. And yet, what I keep thinking about is this: That they were together in those final brutal moments. They were not alone. I don’t say that to romanticize it. I say that because there’s this kind of unbearable beauty in refusing to leave each other even in the face of unimaginable horror. That is love. That is devotion. That is humanity in its rawest form.

[00:03:40] The world will want you to look away from stories like this. They will call it tragedy porn. They will reduce them to addicts, to criminals, to the unhoused. The police reports will use words like ‘transient.’ The news will focus on the abuse of a corpse charge, or the arrest timeline, or the fact that it’s two teenagers, they’ll glorify it.

[00:04:01] And that’s not the story we’re telling you. We’re here to remember who they were. We’re here to name what failed them and we are here to say they mattered.

[00:04:22] Noah had fire in him. He questioned everything. He hated being told what to do. Not because he was defiant for its own sake, but because trust didn’t come easy in his world. Not when the people in the systems that were supposed to protect him had already let him down over and over again. He was street-smart, sharp-tongued, funny when he let you close enough to see it. He had dreams, one that didn’t always look like success in the traditional sense, but they were built on the hope of just surviving long enough to choose his own future.

[00:04:55] M— was gentle in contrast, steady when she could be. From what I’ve heard, she had a calming presence, someone you want near you when everything was falling apart, and everything often was. They both fell through the cracks, but the cracks are not empty. They’re filled with real people, with stories, with lives in progress, and if we let those people disappear without ceremony, without recognition, without grief, we lose a part of our own humanity every time.

[00:05:30] Because to be human is to see other humans, even when they’re at their most difficult, most chaotic, most broken, and especially then. Some would ask why I’m spending time memorializing two addicts or two trans people or two people who by society’s standards had already failed. But I’d argue what kind of society creates those standards? What kind of culture lets children grow up on the streets, lets teens overdose in public bathrooms, lets lovers sleep in tents in the rain while rehab programs sit full and housing sits empty? What kind of world looks away from the suffering and then blames the sufferers?

[00:06:13] M— and Noah are not a cautionary tale. They are, in a way, a call to action. They are a reminder that even in the darkest corners of society, there is love, there is struggle, there is fire, and there is light. Even if it’s the last flickering ember, we owe it the respect of tending it, of naming it, of mourning, when it goes out.

[00:06:43] Presenter: Here’s the producer of The Last Light, Echo Sherman.

[00:06:47] Echo Sherman (KEPW, The Last Light, producer): If you have someone you’d like us to honor, someone the world forgot or misunderstood, write to us at echo@kepw.org.

[00:06:58] Presenter: You can hear Echo Wednesdays at 6 p.m. on Underground Echo, right here on KEPW 97.3, Eugene’s PeaceWorks community radio.