The following is fiction. It is not meant to portray any specific individuals. I hope it is taken as a tribute to true heroes. It is not in any way intended to trivialize the events of September 11, 2001.
* * * * *
He was exhausted, sweaty, gritty, and dirty. Despite his tremendous efforts for the last 48 hours, he felt guilty and helpless.
He should have been with his squad in the beginning. He had traded time to see his daughter on her birthday. She was 25 now, and they had made a kind of reconciliation after some turbulent years. He was home when he heard the news. His squad was there, he knew it. They needed all hands, and he went immediately.
Most of the damage had occurred by the time he arrived. It was mid-day and sunny in the rest of the world, but this area was in a cloudy twilight of smoke, dust, and fine ash. He couldn't find his squad. He knew they had been called early. Where were they? He donned is gear and respirator and went to work as guided. He could not dwell on the carnage. He had to dig, move, crawl, listen, work. He had to find his buddies. He knew how brave they were because he had seen them in action many times. Risking their lives to save others. He loved them more than life. He prayed, " Take me, not them. They have so much more to give! I am past my prime. I am no great loss. We need them. Their families need them. Take me instead!"
His prayer spurred his energy. He went beyond exhaustion. He worked until he doubled over in searing pain. His body gripped within itself. His stomach cramped, biceps knotted, his legs bent and locked. His hands were claws that would not uncurl.
