Last night, Monday, September 10, 2001, I toiled over tables of authorities and contents at the law firm of Mintz Levin where I am a legal secretary. My attorneys needed to file a brief by midnight and my fingers couldn't seem to type fast enough. Upon leaving the office, a finished product with copies in their hands, they reassured me that I could take my time coming in today.

My morning commute consists of a bus ride to the Pentagon Metro station and a train ride to the Archives/Navy Memorial. Once there, I am at the office – Mintz Levin shares the Navy building. Today, which would come to be called 9/11, I walk through the Pentagon turnstile at 9:35 a.m. and walk towards the end of the platform – once I get off the train on the other side, I will be closer to the exit and arrive earlier at the office. Two minutes later, shouts erupt near the entrance. Assuming it's a drunkard, I return to my musings; the train is entering the station and it's time to board.

But as the train's head emerges from its tunnel, everyone flees towards the exit. Confused, I ramble past them but my legs don't seem to want to move. Fear flushes over me. When a crowd runs, you go with them. Move legs! I try to shout. Finally, I’m heading towards the turnstile, the last person at the station, and as I wonder if the shouter had truly been a drunkard, I see guards running towards me. Am I in trouble? Who was the drunkard? What in the world is happening?

I push through the turnstile and leave the station. Once outside, I examine my surroundings. A tall, muscular man stares into the sky, his jaw agape, and moans, "Oh my God." A gigantic billow of black smoke is flooding into the sky. I assume that the Pentagon is on fire and feel relieved; fire trucks will soon appear and life will return to normal.

But as time goes by and no fire trucks are heard, my skin starts to stand on end and feels clammy. This isn't a fire, is it? We are being led in a line past the Pentagon towards the parking lot where we will be on our own and up ahead of me is a yellow-shirted guard. I ask him what's wrong. Please tell me it's a fire. He replies, "The Trade Center has been hit."

A million thoughts flash through my mind in an instant. Looking for an answer, any answer, I can only hit on one, one singular, dreadful, terrible answer that cannot be true. "Do you mean terrorists?" I ask.

"Yes, terrorists."

When I reach the end of the cordon, an officer is directing traffic and screaming at the top of his lungs. "Run away! Everyone who stays will be killed! You must evacuate! More are coming and the building will collapse!" Having been personally attacked when I was younger, I think about how safety, peace, security are all illusions; nothing is real. This is certainly not real; it's the war of the worlds revisited.

Unsure of where to go, I head towards the only path I can find – under the bridge for I-395 and towards Pentagon City. But I wonder if the bridge will fall on me. If the Pentagon, the most secure building in the world, can crumble, so can a simple bridge – no structure is safe. But there is nowhere else to go. I can't stay and I can't let fear contain me; so I press onward.

After coming out into the light, I head for a hotel across the street and ask for a phone. But already the hotel's phones and all cell phones are out across the city. Traffic on the bridge has come to a dead halt as has traffic for miles around. As cars, buses and taxis fill the street, there is nowhere for any of them to go.

As I leave the hotel and consider where to go next, a woman sitting in a yellow, faded lounge chair tells me that someone has control of our airwaves; the pilots believe they are flying higher than they actually are. Another passerby tells me that the terrorists hit the Trade Center, USA Today, and the Pentagon within the last hour. "That's commerce, media, and security – all gone," she chokes.

I stand in a line waiting for a payphone on the street that seems to be working. Women are taking off their heels, planning to walk miles barefoot to work. A man with crazy, wild hair standing straight up on his head like a bush about to take flight runs up to a woman ahead of me in line shouting, "Oh my god, I thought we'd lost you. I was standing in the office with my arms loaded with papers when a gigantic ball of flames came ripping towards me. I threw everything down, shouted, 'Get the f___ out of here,' and ran for life. I don't even know how I got out. We've found everyone but you and Janet." As they move off together, I realize the line is not moving and head back towards the Pentagon.

At least if I can't go anywhere, I might be able to watch. But as I begin to cross the intersection, soldiers are running towards me. This does not seem like the right time to move forward. Lost and confused, I stand in the intersection and look around. Circles of people are praying in the middle of the street. Cars are like bugs, scattered everywhere in no particular direction. People are crying, shouting, screaming and no one, not even the soldiers, seems to know for sure what has happened. And that's when it begins – the earth shakes under my feet, throwing me around, tossing me like a tree casting off a leaf. Someone across the street shouts, "The boilers are going off." A simple answer is hard to believe, but it keeps me from moving closer to the Pentagon.

Crossing the street, I come to a parked car playing the news. About fifteen of us have gathered to listen intently, trying to discern anything new, needing to hear any words at all about what is happening. The DJ relates, "The Trade Center, both towers, are down." The screams of terror around me increase. "More planes are flying towards the Pentagon. We have reports that USA Today, the Capitol, the FBI, and the White House have all been attacked. Please do not stand too close to parked cars; we don't know if there are bombs under any of them."

Stepping gently away from the car, I realize that the Pentagon City Mall is open. My stomach growls; I haven't eaten yet today. Thoughts flood my brain. What time is it? I don't have any money; how can I get food? How am I going to get home? Does anyone outside this block know that the world has ended? I need to call work and let them know I'm stuck in some kind of science fiction calamity.

It would be more than a year before any of the events of that day felt real. My mail would come wrapped in plastic pouches with notices of having been checked for anthrax, our office building would be evacuated due to anthrax threats and evacuation kits would be handed out to all staff members, there were notes left on apartment doors warning of suspicious-looking people who might inhabit the area, and people whose skin happened to be tan would be noticed crying on the subway or evacuating due to death threats they had received.

The one and only thing I wanted back then was to hear President Bush speak. While I am from a liberal family, I knew that if President Bush had survived, so would our nation. As I prepare to vote in November, that is what I consider. Who will protect me? Who will keep us safe at night? Who will ensure that our nation is not just strong, but brave? When soldiers flee in terror, who will stand firm at the front of the line and face our enemies, hands on shoulders, chin in the air, prepared to surrender to no one?