On September 10th, a perfect rainbow appears outside our Tower 1 window. “A lucky sign,” a co-worker says.

On September 11th, I leave my Tribeca high-rise a half-hour later than usual. Then, bam! The loudest car wreck I’ve ever heard. People are pointing, so I look up. A movie shoot: They’ve painted flames on the North Tower. Tower 1.. I realize it’s actual fire and start screaming, “That looks like it’s by 84. Everyone I work with is dead. Oh, no, what’s falling?”

Minutes later, a plane flies low over my head, rams into the South Tower. I run up to my apartment. On TV, bodies drop from windows. Our Office Manager finally reaches me: “Our thick-metal door blew off. We ran down. Everybody’s OK!”

That night, I sleep in my clothes. Next morning, the Red Cross is in my lobby with oranges. Our water turns brown, the air thick-white. They evacuate us. I move to Queens.

After a few weeks, the boss finds a temporary space. While we work, the men draw the same World Trade Center diagrams from different angles, showing where they were at each minute. The women say very little.

In dreams, I make the long trek down from the 84th floor with my co-workers. We pass Armani Suit Woman slowly stirring sugar into coffee every fifth landing, Wheel Chair Stranger some men are carrying, Really Heavy Guy who sits down and probably never gets up, Almost Lucky Man: Makes it out the front door, then a body falls on him.

Daytime, hard to figure out where my feet end and each step begins. Floors and ceilings shift like when I smoked a joint once, spiked with angel dust. Can’t catch my breath. The acupuncturist puts rows of glass cups on my chest. For two days, I cough up black stuff: The dust of angels. Every time I enter our new office building and before I can leave, I touch the living flowers on the Security Desk.