‘You haven’t been hit on the head?’
‘Hit on the head?’
‘You’re in your office?’
‘Yes, shit, I’m in my office!’
‘What can you see?’
‘What can I see?’
‘Tell me what you can see out of your fucking window?’ she demanded.
‘I see beautiful blue sky. The East River. I—’
‘You goddamn liar!’ The phone went dead.
Marcie, rolling over, said, ‘What’s with all the sirens?’ She picked the television remote up from her bedside table, and pressed a button on it. The television came alive. She clicked through to a news channel. A panicky looking female news reporter, holding a microphone in her hand, was standing with her back to the building Larry recognized instantly. It was where he worked. Up on the eighty-seventh floor of the South Tower of the World Trade Center.
The newscaster had not seen, yet, the horror unfolding behind her as the skyscraper collapsed in on itself. Terrified people were running past her, some with blood on their faces, many covered in grey dust.
‘Shit… what… what the—?’ he said, shooting a glance at his Tag Heuer watch, on which the time and the date were clearly displayed.
It was 9.59 a.m., 11 September 2001.