Frankie’s doorman now recognized Charlie from the repeated times he dropped Frankie off and kissed her a friendly good-bye. “You know, Dr. Acton,” the doorman said in an Irish accent, “this explosion is not about a suicide bomber or Con Edison. It’s those blankety-blank politicians who are trying to scare us half to death. I know, I come from Ireland.”

As Frankie stepped out of the elevator the doorman continued, “Dr. Weissman, there’s no one on the street tonight. Why don’t you stay in.”

“We were thinking we could do some good, George.” Charlie turned to the doorman and took Frankie’s arm.

“You take good care of her, Dr. Acton,” George called to him as they left the building. “I don’t want nothing happening to her. When I tell people I know Dr. Frankie Weissman, they tell me I’m a lucky man.”

Frankie and Charlie walked out onto Columbus Avenue. Traffic had been stopped and the stillness was reminiscent of a winter night when a blizzard halts the life of the city and the only pedestrians are children cross-country skiing.

Frankie broke the silence. “I remembered you went to the World Trade Center after 9/11.”

“Yes. I’m very glad you called me.” He squeezed her hand.

“Do you think it was a suicide bomber?” Frankie asked. “That’s terrifying.”

“I don’t know, Frankie.” He turned to her. “I don’t believe what anybody tells me except for you.”

By the time they got to Seventy-second Street the smell of the city was thick with fire, burning flesh, and hot coffee.

“You can’t go past here.” A policeman stopped them at the barricades.

“I’m Dr. Charles Acton, I’m with the burn unit at NewYork Hospital.” Charlie pulled out his ID card and the note he had used from the mayor’s office during 9/11. “I was at the World Trade Center. And this is Dr. Francesca Weissman. She’s a pediatrician from Mount Sinai.”

“Go ahead.” The cop let them through the blockade.

As they approached the former gathering spot the scene began to look more and more like a newsreel from Jerusalem. There were remains of coffee cups and body parts randomly tossed out toward the Reebok Sports Club. A mother was screeching while holding on to a dead infant. Glass was scattered on the street like an American Kristallnacht, except the shards were splattered with nonfat Frappuccinos.

“I’m Dr. Acton with the NewYork Hospital burn unit. And this is Dr. Francesca Weissman with Sinai Pediatrics. What can we do for you?” Charlie approached an emergency worker while the ABC News team was shooting footage.

The emergency medic quickly dismissed him. “Just go home. We’ve got enough people here.”

“I was at the World Trade Center,” Charlie added.

“Listen, if you need to get your thrills, watch CSI or some TV show. I’ve got work to do here.”