On the morning of Sept. 11, 2001, I had laid out a suit for work. By the time I realized what was happening, I left that suit behind. Jeans, a shirt — that would do. I didn’t have time for starch and polish. My car was blocked in, so I set out on foot toward the National Press Club, walking fast through the thick Washington air, hoping to catch a cab, my mind already racing faster than my feet.

The television anchors were still stumbling over their words when I left my 16th Street apartment. A plane had flown into the World Trade Center, they said. Then another. By the time the Pentagon was struck, it was clear this wasn’t a tragic accident but a coordinated nightmare unfolding in real time.

At the ripe age of 35, I was the Washington bureau chief for The Detroit News. My job was to guid

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