United We Stand by Eric Walters

whole lot more? That was how many people were missing.
    Beneath the pictures were flowers, hundreds and hundreds of flowers, in bunches and singles. There were lit candles and stuffed animals and signs with big letters naming the person in the picture and offering information about them and who to contact if they were located.
    There was a knot of people standing off to the side in the plaza and we walked toward that group. As we moved closer I could see the reason for the crowd. There was a camera crew interviewing people. We keptmoving closer until we were near enough to see and hear what was going on.
    A man stood in front of the camera, holding up a big picture. It showed a woman in her twenties with dark hair, dark eyes, and a big smile.
    “This is my daughter, Marcia,” he said. He had an accent and darker skin, and he looked like he was Mexican or Cuban or something like that.
    “She’s very beautiful,” the female interviewer said.
    “She looks like her mother. She has her mother’s eyes,” he said.
    “And your daughter, your Marcia, she worked in the World Trade Center?”
    “In the North Tower. She worked in the restaurant at the top of the building. She called home after the plane crash,” he said. “She left a message on the answering machine. She said that she was fine, that she was safe. I wish I’d been there to talk to her instead of just hearing her voice on the …” His voice cracked and then trailed off, and it was obvious he was fighting back tears.
    “You haven’t heard from her since then?”
    “Nothing. Nothing,” he said, shaking his head. “Marcia, we know you’re okay,” he sobbed. “We haven’t given up. Anybody who has heard … please call us … please.” He started to cry even harder but kept holding the picture up for the camera.
    One by one people came forward to the camera and held up pictures of the person they loved—the person who was missing. All these different people,but pretty much the same story. All were desperately hoping to hear something, anything.
    The announcer—she was young and pretty and seemed vaguely familiar—looked directly into the camera. “These ordinary citizens, these ordinary people, are here hoping, praying for word on their loved ones.”
    I thought she was going to start crying. Not fake, movie-star, made- for-TV crying but genuine tears. She sniffed and wiped her eyes.
    “They have gathered here, as near as possible to the spot they last heard from, or of, their loved ones, but this is as close as they can get. Their way is blocked by police barricades—”
    “I can’t watch this any more,” James said. He practically ran away, pushing past people.
    “James!” I called out, but he didn’t turn around or slow down.
    I rushed after him, but he was moving fast. I bumped past the people in my way and grabbed him from behind by the arms.
    “James, I …” Then I started to cough, and instead of stopping it got worse and worse, and it felt like it was caught in my throat and I couldn’t breathe.
    James slapped me on the back. “Are you okay?” He sounded worried.
    I nodded my head, but I couldn’t answer or stop coughing.
    He slapped me harder on the back. “Just sit down,” he said, and he eased me to the curb.
    “Does anybody have any water?” he called out.
    Almost instantly half a dozen water bottles were thrust toward us. He grabbed one—a full one—twisted off the cap, and handed it to me. I took a big swig and swallowed, and it washed the cough back down my throat.
    “You okay now?” he asked.
    “Yeah … I’m … okay.”
    I noticed that we were in the middle of a little throng of people. I coughed again and took another swig of water.
    “I couldn’t stop and I couldn’t catch my breath,” I tried to explain, although I hardly had enough air in my lungs to answer.
    A woman kneeled down in front of me. “I’m a nurse. Do you have asthma or bronchitis?”
    I shook my head.
    “It’s all the stuff in the