Tuesday, September 11, 2001
Chicago, 6:28 a.m.
The city stirred slowly under a watercolor sky. The air was sharp with early autumn chill, crisp against Daniel's skin as he jogged down the quiet sidewalk. His breath fogged gently in front of him, rhythmically timed with his steps. Trees had just begun to blush with orange, and fallen leaves crunched beneath his sneakers.
Claude said nothing.
She hadn't for hours, and Daniel respected the silence. Some things didn't need words.
His neighborhood, still half-asleep, rolled by in peaceful stillness. A garbage truck rumbled in the distance. Sprinklers hissed lazily onto lawns. In another life, this could've been a perfect Tuesday.
He reached the corner convenience store and bought a bottle of water. The cashier—a middle-aged man with a Cubs hat—smiled at him like it was any other day. Daniel smiled back. He wanted to freeze that moment, the quiet before the rupture.
6:55 a.m.
Back home, he showered quickly. His computer screen blinked in the dim light of his bedroom. A dozen scripts were running, quietly weaving through the market like phantoms: short positions, leveraged options, synthetic puts, sector ETFs on airlines, tourism, and global logistics.
Total exposure: $292 million.
Projected profit: insufficient data for meaning answer.
He didn't look at the live feed. He already knew.
Claude finally whispered, "You still have time to stop it."
"Not the attacks."
"No," she said. "I meant your part."
He paused, towel in hand, staring at his own reflection. His eyes looked older than seventeen. "No. If I don't fund what comes next, it all happens again."
"Then this is the price."
He nodded.
7:23 a.m.
He arrived at school early. The hallways echoed with half-hearted chatter, sneakers squeaking on linoleum. Familiar faces—people he used to know, now strangers. The weight of two timelines pressed down on him like gravity.
In his locker, a photo strip from two years ago fluttered out. Three boys smiling at a theme park. One of them was him. He stared at it for a long time.
"You okay?" asked a girl behind him. Her name was Emma. Used to sit behind him in chemistry.
"Just tired," he replied. The lie sat on his tongue like ash.
7:44 a.m.
Daniel took his seat. Mr. Raymond adjusted his tie and flipped open his attendance binder.
"Haizen?"
"Present."
His voice cracked slightly. No one noticed.
Outside, the light was too golden. Too calm.
7:51 a.m.
The intercom clicked.
"Attention staff and students. This is Principal Caldwell. We have received reports that an aircraft has collided with the World Trade Center in New York City. Teachers, please remain calm and continue with your scheduled lessons. If you have access to television or radio, you may use your discretion to stay informed. Further updates will be provided as we receive more information. Thank you."
The room stilled.
Daniel closed his eyes. It had begun.
Mr. Raymond hesitated, then crossed the room and turned on the TV mounted high in the corner. Static flickered into grainy news footage. A tower. Black smoke pouring into the sky.
Whispers. Confusion.
Daniel sat perfectly still.
"It's probably a Cessna," someone said.
Then the second plane hit.
The soundless explosion bloomed across the screen.
Gasps. A girl dropped her book. Mr. Raymond stepped backward like he'd been struck.
Jessica, sitting one row behind, whispered, "No. No, no, no."
Daniel whispered weakly back, "Here it's."
Claude murmured, "Second impact confirmed."
8:10 a.m.
Some students were crying now. Others silent, jaws slack. The footage looped again. The second plane over and over. A loop from hell.
"Was that on purpose?" someone asked.
"It's terrorists," said another.
No one corrected him. Everyone knew. Everyone felt it in their bones.
Meanwhile, in New York
Floor 83 was half-empty. The fire alarm had gone off twenty minutes ago. Confused workers stood outside, annoyed first then relief later. Others never arrived.
A fax from a false inspection firm. A taxi delay. A child's illness. A slashed tire.
Coincidence?
No.
Daniel Haizen had pulled every string he could. Quietly. Anonymously.
It wouldn't stop the collapse. But it saved them.
They spent all night on it. Claude controlled landlines, sent forged emails, impersonated building inspectors.
They couldn't stop history.
But they could dent it.
Back to Present – 9:00 a.m.
The school had moved everyone to the gymnasium. Dozens of students sat in rows, eyes locked on two rolling TVs. Some stared into space.
"The Pentagon's been hit," a voice said.
"This is war."
Daniel sat in the back. Alone. Unmoving.
Natan and Jim approached him. "Dude, do you think Chicago's next?"
He shook his head. "No."
"How can you be so sure?"
He looked at him with ancient eyes and didn't answer.
9:59 a.m.
The South Tower fell.
Not just collapsed—crumbled like a dying lung. The room erupted. Even the teachers were crying. People screamed. Some ran from the TVs.
Daniel remained seated. His hands trembled slightly.
Claude seeking to lighten the mood, remarked, "Looks like our estimated profit and loss at this stage is $4.6 billion"
He didn't respond.
10:28 a.m.
The North Tower fell.
Jim sank to the floor, sobbing. Natan didn't want to watch anymore. Someone vomited. The principal knelt in prayer.
Daniel stood, quietly, and walked out of the gym.
No one stopped him.
Afternoon
He walked home alone.
On every corner, people huddled around car radios. Flags began appearing in windows. Tears on stranger's faces. The world had changed, and no one knew how yet.
At home, his mother was curled on the couch, clutching a tissue box. The TV hadn't been off all day.
His father stood by the kitchen table, pale and angry.
"They don't know how many are dead," he muttered. "They're saying thousands. Maybe more."
Daniel placed a hand on his shoulder.
Robert looked at him. "You okay, son?"
"Yeah," Daniel lied.
He went to his room and locked the door.
4:41 p.m.
His screen glowed. His trading screen displayed:
Total PNL: $6,872,201,994.03
He stared at it.
And stood there.
Claude whispered, "Want to hear a poem?"
"Sure."
She recited lines from Rainer Maria Rilke, translated from German. Something about grief folding into the heart like a stone.
Daniel stayed in deep silence.
Later that night – 7:30 p.m. Central Time
The living room was dark, lit only by the television screen. Daniel sat on the floor with his knees pulled to his chest. His mother clutched a pillow. His father hadn't spoken in over an hour.
Then the Oval Office appeared.
President George W. Bush looked directly into the camera, solemn and unwavering.
"Good evening. Today, our fellow citizens, our way of life, our very freedom came under attack..."
Daniel didn't blink.
"The victims were in airplanes, or in their offices; secretaries, businessmen and women, military and federal workers, moms and dads, friends and neighbors."
Claude spoke softly. "History is sealing the door behind us."
"Terrorist attacks can shake the foundations of our biggest buildings, but they cannot touch the foundation of America."
"These acts shattered steel, but they cannot dent the steel of American resolve."
President Bush paused. Then looked down briefly at his notes, before ending with a quiet strength:
"The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures... and though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil."
In his room after dinner.
He created a program. Simple interface. Black background. One white line at the top: "Those We Saved."
He added names. Marissa. Ray. Darnell. Amira…
Then he turned off the light and stared at the ceiling with a deep exhaustion of the body and aged soul.