And then we see them. A circle of fire engines clustered around the Grace Congregational Church like covered wagons pulling up for the night. Their shocking red exteriors shine like exoskeletons in the sun and almost detract from the flames. But as we come level with the church, the fire is hard to miss. It envelops the roof and steeple like waves of orange water. Most of the building is brick, so the fire seems to be concentrated in the areas where there is timber.

My mother taps her hand impatiently against the parking brake. “Why won’t they move?” she demands.

“The church is on fire,” I tell her, as if it isn’t obvious.

She huffs but can’t resist leaning down and over to get the full view out my window. “Haven’t they ever seen a little fire before?” she asks, peeved.

But it’s not a little fire at all, even if the church itself is pretty small. We are nearly at a standstill. The light ahead is blinking red, and two patrolmen are directing cars through the intersection one at a time. I stare at the hoses streaming water in violent bursts, to no avail. And as we’re watching, there is a loud crack. Something within the belfry gives way, and a plume of dust rises through the flames. And then, with a slow and steady sway, the steeple itself lurches to one side until it is point down and tumbles to the ground below in a tumult of splintering wood and warping metal.

The Tower. I see the harrowing image from my deck in my mind. It is the toppling of all we know to be true.

My mother crosses herself—something I have never seen her do in my life—and sits back in her seat, a look of panic on her face. “We have to go,” she spits. “We don’t have time for this.”

We are not on a deadline, and there is plenty of daylight left for our drive back. It is not time she is worried about.

Suddenly, she cuts the wheel left and pulls out to the side of the car in front of her, taking up the oncoming lane and half the city sidewalk to do it.

“What are you doing?” I clutch the armrest of my door.

“Getting us out of here.”

The patrolmen have yet to notice, and by the time they do, she is at the intersection turning left and barreling down Anchor Street.

I keep looking back, worried they’ll follow, but after a few blocks, I realize they can’t exactly leave their posts. Pretty soon she is turning right again, and we are back on track to the crematorium with a detour of only half a dozen blocks or so behind us.

“Why did you do that?” I ask her, belatedly angry as we pull in to park. My heart is still pumping at triple speed.

“Huh?”