Suddenly, from somewhere in the dark recesses of her mind, an image leaped forth into her consciousness. It was a picture, a still photograph of a shattered elevator cab like the one she was in lying twisted and partially covered by rubble of a building ripped apart by a terrorist’s bomb. Though she couldn’t recall whether it was from Oklahoma’s Murraugh Building, or the World Trade Center, or the last Federal building to be hit, she clearly remembered the debate over whether it should be used in a news story or not. Some felt that the image of a bloody arm hanging listlessly from doors jarred partially open by the impact of the elevator’s fall was too intense for TV audiences. Others chided the more squeamish, reminding them that they had used images that were far worse before. “Remember what they say,” one particularly cavalier individual admonished. “If it bleeds, it leads.”

Jan had remained aloof from the discussion. Not because she didn’t have an opinion. Rather, she had found herself mesmerized by the photo. She found that she had to keep reminding herself that the photo had not been taken in Tel Aviv, or Bosnia, or Colombia. The photo had been in her own country, in a building very much like many a one she and her loved ones often visited. While she had faced danger in the past, the idea that such things could occur in the very city where she lived, or that a wanton act of terrorism could take from her people she loved and cared for in the blink of an eye rattled her in a way she had never been shaken before.

Suddenly Jan found herself gripped by panic. The idea that the next arm hanging out of a demolished elevator could be hers overwhelmed her. Glancing about at her fellow riders Jan wondered what she would do if a bomb suddenly went off in this building. Nothing. There would be nothing that she could do. She would die right there together with this random collection of strangers. Instead of being a star journalist she would simply become the next victim, part of another tangled pile of mangled body parts left for a rescue worker to find, sort, tag, and bag.

Nervously, Jan shifted her weight from one foot to the other, subconsciously trying to push her way forward as if being close to the door might somehow get her out of this terrible danger sooner. Jerking her head up, she looked to see what floor they were on. No! she found herself thinking. We’re going too slow. Too slow.