Page 92 of Lucky Night

…trying to make sense of what’s happening, it’s a scene of chaos as first responders attempt to reach the wounded on the street. It’s still not clear what precipitated what appears to have been a, a massive detonation several stories above the known location of the fire. Here’s footage from a few minutes ago, capturing the event.

The screen cuts to a view of the building from the street. Unremarkable. Then a stripe of orange appears, running left to right across it, flaring behind the windows, blooming and bursting through, sending glass showering down. The crowd starts screaming. Jesus Christ.

CNN plays the explosion again. And again.

He redials again. And again.

Busy.

He was in New Haven in September 2001. Starting his second year of law school, holed up in the offices of the Law Journal one morning, editing an article, when another student burst in—it was Justine Dillon, he remembers that specifically—babbling about a plane crash in New York City. She turned on the TV in time for them to see the second plane hit the South Tower.

It’s going to fall, Jenny says. We’re going to fall.

Honey, no. It’s okay.

We are, she says. We’re falling. We’re dying.

She’s leaning forward, her duvet cocoon pushed away. Staring at the television.

Jenny, we’re here, okay? We’re right here. I’m trying to get some information about—

You’re so calm, she says. Aren’t you scared?

He smooths her hair back, looks into her eyes.

Of course I’m scared. This is…this is not good. It looks like it was worse for the people who were outside the building, but yeah. I’m scared shitless.

He laughs. See? I’m laughing. A classic hysterical reaction. But I’m also tryingto—

Edvin’s dead, she says. He must be dead. Is Juliana dead?

I don’t know.

She is, she says. Juliana’s dead. We’re dead.

Jenny, honey, that’s not true, we’re—

Jenny honey, she says. Jenny honey, Jenny baby, baby baby baby sweetheart what say we screw? Still wanna screw, Nick? Wanna screwme?

Okay, he says, so you’re not…are you with me here, or are you—

This is my fault, she says. All ofit.

The CNN reporter is chattering away. Nick mutes the television and puts his arms around her. Back to the holding, the nearness, the low voice. He leans toward the nightstand for his plugged-in phone.

It’s okay, Jenny. I’m going to keep trying this number. I’m going to dial until I get through and find out what’s going on. We’re going to sit here together, and we’re going to breathe. It’s still busy. The fucking…I’m trying again. You know what, though? That’s a good sign. It means lots of people are calling. Lots of people are alive in this building, likeus—

Dead, she says. Likeus.

No, that’s…hey. Would you maybe like to pray? You could take a minute, collect your thoughts—

She turns her huge, dark eyes on him.

Who am I going to pray to, Nick? Not my mafia God. Not my Catholic crime boss God.

Jenny, I am so sorry I ever insulted your—

That’s not who you mean, right? Because he won’t help me. He put me here. He made this happen. These flames, this fire? God didit.

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