Bob Hinton was one of the few people in the country for whom September 11, 2001 was a bright day. That his life had been spared was certainly a part of that, but a faint candle compared to his meeting Stacey.

His trip to Manhattan on the tenth had been a lark; a chance for him to finally get to see The Big City, as all New Yorkers referred to it, and he’d set out to do it with a bit of style. He’d booked a room for a week at a hotel on West 81st Street, directly across from the Heyden Planetarium, following the advice of a friend, and planned to use the lodging as his base of operation during his week-long exploration. His friend had also supplied an impossibly long list of things for Bob to do, but that too was good as it gave him choices, and any nineteen year old appreciates choices.

On that first evening in the city, he’d decided to find something to eat on Columbus Avenue. If nothing else met up to his expectations, there was the familiar pizza chain place he’d spotted on his arrival. On the elevator to the ground floor, he hummed quietly, and just as he was exiting the building the most remarkable thing happened; Stacey arrived! She carried a purse, and a fair sized satchel, and had her single piece of luggage rolling along behind her as she moved from the cab to the door. Given an agile mind, Bob saw that, whoever she was, in reality she was above average in looks, but not the femme fatale. What made her a beauty to die for rest in her animated being. There was energetic freedom in her step, happy optimism all over her face, and during the moment that he held the door for her he realized that she possessed the most remarkable gray-to-green eyes he’d ever seen. Bob did something he’d never done before.

As soon as she was completely inside the lobby he said, “Excuse me, miss. I know this seems a bit too much, but is there any chance I could buy you a coffee?”

She studied him for too long a while, smiling slightly, then said, “Why would I accept such an offer from a total stranger in this town?”

“I can’t think of a good reason,” Bob replied before nodding his acceptance of her rejection.

Just as he turned to leave he heard, “Could you give me ten minutes to get some jeans on?”

His heart was suddenly a piece of timpani in his ears, but he still managed to appear calm as he looked back at her. “Ten minutes? I can do all of that.” Then he added, “My name’s Bob,” and held out his hand.

Her reply was, “My name’s none of your business yet, but that can change. Don’t go away,” she said as she shook his hand and then strode off with that mode of walking that was so engaging.

By ten o’clock that night, though neither of them would be foolish enough to admit it, both Stacey and Bob knew that theirs was not a casual encounter. Stacey knew the city and was considering applying to Columbia. She reviewed the list of places he’d been given and said, “You’re friend has you busy for a month!”

It took Bob painfully long to ask if she’d have time to show him some of the city, and Stacey, for her part, set all her previous plans aside. In all her life, she had never taken chances of such magnitude, but this seemed to her too good an opportunity to let simply slip away. She would be his guide. He would be her pet terrorist. They had an agenda now, loose though it was.

The following morning at seven they met in the lobby, bought coffee at the corner shop, and Stacy led the way to the subway station. By design, she got them onto the front car of the train and tugged him straight to the window that would let him see the tunnel they traveled through. Bob realized then that Stacey was as big a kid a heart as he was, not mentioning that, as nearly as he could tell, they’d taken the wrong train. It didn’t matter.

He let her lead the way through the station and up to the street. “Staten Island Ferry?” he said as soon as his eyes adjusted to the morning sunlight.

“The only good way to see the Statue of Liberty,” she replied.

“But where’s…”

“Look behind you, and sort of up,” Stacey said, grabbing him by the sleeve and tugging him along.

As they were passing Liberty Island, she said, “Some tourist you are. No camera!”

Bob produced a smallish digital camera from his inside jacket pocket, and wrinkled his nose at her.

She leaned against the railing and said, “Good! Now take your trophy photo, so you can show all the cab drivers in Schenectady the bimbo you … oh, never mind.” She struck a few theatrical poses and Bob snapped away, working very hard to get both her and the statues in the frame.

Then he did a very Bob-like thing. He walked up to her, smiled slightly, and said, “No one gets to see these photos unless you personally allow them to.”

Stacey felt her knees tremble, because somehow she knew that he meant not only what his words had said, but a great deal more. It took her seconds to get a grip, and then to release it. Such things, she knew, never ever happened, but what if they did? She patted his chest lightly with both hands and said quietly, “You say awful nice things, mister.” Did you say that! her intellect demanded. Why not just hand him the keys to the kingdom! She realized that she was on the verge of panting, and that would never do. She looked away from him, towards the now receding statue, now worried that she might have scared him away, or maybe that she’d exposed herself too much. Then the simple presence of a hand on her shoulder told her that, for now at least, all was well. Without letting him see, she grinned broadly.

The return trip was jammed with people, all anxious to get to their jobs, and all politely rude as only New Yorkers can be. Stacey held them back from the crush until the boat was nearly empty, then led him not unlike an usher on a mission. “I take it we’re going someplace?” he said and chuckled.

“The eagle in Battery Park is a must, and then on to the top of the towers!” For reasons she couldn’t fathom, Stacey gave into the urge to clutch his arm as they walked. After a block or so she settled on that she was announcing to all those other females that this was her stuff, if only for the moment. She could live with that one.

Bob was awed by the huge bronze eagle and the East Coast Memorial that surrounded it. It was simply striking from so many different lines of thought. Mostly, he was forced to consider what these men and women who had died on the Atlantic during World War II had done, and how they had done it without question. The phrase, “Uncommon valor a common virtue,” ran through his mind, and sent chills throughout.

“Time to get high,” Stacey said, and off they headed towards the twin towers. Bob looked at his watch, and then back up at the buildings. It was exactly 9:45.

Between the time American Airlines Flight 11 hit the north tower, and when the sound reached him, Bob managed to utter a, “Jesus Christ!”