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chairs.
    â€œLet’s start upstairs,” Ray said.
    The smell of the library was as classical as its architecture. Lauren felt as though she’d been transported back in time. Everything—the paneled walls, the parquet floor, the thick bookcases, the countless tables and chairs—were made of the same exquisite old wood. It gave off the charming effect of being surrounded by all things academia. Lauren felt a flutter in her stomach.
    On the second floor, they walked along the rail, Lauren now looking down at the students below. Everyone seemed so committed, so consumed, so mature . She loved it.
    â€œFavorite author?” Ray said as they stepped down a narrow aisle between shelves.
    Oh, my God, I should have an answer to this question ready to roll off my tongue .
    The aisle smelled a bit musty and, as she stared at the bindings, she frowned. Medieval French history; that wasn’t going to help her any in naming a favorite author. Silly as it was, she suddenly felt claustrophobic. Ray had her all but cornered. A wooden cart on wheels stood dead ahead as though to block her pass if she tried to make a run for it.
    Gustave Flaubert, or will I come off as a literary snob? Talk about pretentious. But then, I can’t exactly say J. K. Rowling either. Someone in between. Someone he won’t be expecting. Not a canned answer like Mark Twain or Charles Dickens .
    As she thought, a pair of thick books jumped off the top shelf and landed on the floor in front of her with a thunk that she felt in her belly. She hopped back a step as dust came billowing up from between the books’ yellowed pages.
    A moment later, she tried to peek through the stacks to see who was lurking in the next aisle over. She was hoping to receive an apology for what had to be an accident. But before she could steal a glimpse, a single book struck her on the top of her head.
    â€œ Ow, ” she said, rubbing her scalp and staring down at the large old volume. Now she wondered whether it was an accident at all, or perhaps the students at Columbia weren’t quite as mature as she’d previously thought. She peered through the stacks again. “That hurt ,” she hissed.
    Ray held up a finger to silence her. “Hear that?”
    â€œHear what?”
    But then she heard it, too. A low rumble, as though they were trapped inside the belly of a great beast and it was hungry.
    â€œWe’d better get back downstairs,” Ray said.
    But as soon as the words left his tongue, he and Lauren were knocked into one another as the shelves on both their left and right poured more books down upon them. Together they fell to the floor, watching in terror as the tall bookcases themselves began to shudder, threatening any second to crush Ray and Lauren under their weight.
    â€œWhat’s happening?” Lauren cried, though she didn’t get, nor had she been expecting a response, at least not from Ray. But as if to answer her question, a series of images popped instantly into her mind.
    Her mother.
    The towers.
    The second airplane.
    The blaze and billowing black smoke rising to blot out the sky.
    No , she thought. It can’t be . We can’t be under attack again.
    Her father’s words rung in her ears. “We’re safe, honey. This is our city. We have nothing to be afraid of.”
    She thought, Then why the hell were FBI agents and undercover cops following me around all summer? Huh, Dad?

5
    Nick froze. He stood before the jury box as still as stone, just as he had a dozen years ago when he finally reached the outer perimeter raised by the NYPD around the World Trade Center. Even as jurors jumped from their seats and leapt the rail, Nick stood stationary. In his mind a montage of violent images roared across the stage. Images of the South Tower as it began to crumble from the top down, followed thirty minutes later by the North. The mammoth clouds of dust and debris that immediately billowed toward the