The skyline of my city was forever altered.

That was what I kept thinking the evening of Sept. 11, 2001, after I’d finally made my way home to Brooklyn from my job in Manhattan, through a city that suddenly felt like a war zone. My roommate had spent all day in our dark apartment, watching the news and manning our landline as our friends and relatives called and checked in, including my little brother, a student at NYU whose dorm was near the World Trade Center.

By that night, we knew everyone we loved was safe and settled and it seemed no other attacks would happen, so we did what much of the city did: we went to a bar. The weather outside was beautiful, though even from across the river you could smell the acrid smoke from the fires and the musty, choking scent of ash, jet fuel and deb

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