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should.
    “Why haven’t we heard anything?” Pasquale demanded of Steve, who looked as unsure as Pasquale felt.
    “I-I don’t know. Who the hell knows what’s going on?”
    “What the hell are we still doing here then?” Pasquale asked, looking around at the people, most of whom were leaning against the walls, some crying, others talking on their cell phones, holding them close to their mouths so the screech of the alarm wouldn’t drown out their desperate voices.
    “I don’t know. Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Steve finally said.
    In the lobby on the north side, Steve and Pasquale ripped the tape from the double doors to the hallway. They ran into the hall and to the closest stairway door, Stairwell B. To their surprise, the stairwell was well lit, and there was very little smoke on that side. They ran back to tell Pat.
    “Let’s gather everyone together and tell them we’re leaving,” Pat said.
    People grouped close to the hallway doors on the north side.
    “I’m not leaving until we’re told to,” one man proclaimed, pulling back.
    “Look,” Pasquale said, “at least stay in the stairwell. There’s a lot less smoke there. It’s easier to breathe. The firemen should be up here soon.”
    Off in Irene Shulman’s office, close to the conference room, the phone rang. Someone ran to answer and came back with the news that it was Jerry DelTuffo, Physical Plant Manager of the George Washington Bridge, and a good friend of Pat and Steve’s.
    Pat ran to talk to him and came back to report that Jerry was in Fort Lee, New Jersey, watching the smoke and fire from there. “I told him we’re leaving. I’m keeping the phone off the hook, and Jerry’s staying on the line, just in case we need to come back here and let him know what we’re doing.”
    At 10:10 a.m., they gathered flashlights and wet cloths and made ready to make their descent down the stairs to the street, sixty-four floors below.
    Someone took a head count: sixteen people. Pasquale was at the front of the line, Rosa and Genelle were directly behind him, then Simon Weiser, Lisa, Debbie, Susan, Franco, and others, with Steve and Pat bringing up the rear.
    As they entered the stairwell, someone said in a relieved tone, “This doesn’t look too bad. The stairs are empty. Shouldn’t take long to get down.”
    In the lead, Pasquale called back to the others, “Everything’s clear! Don’t see anything.”
    The line snaked its way down behind Pasquale, and everyone was calm and moving at a normal pace.
    When they reached the forty-ninth floor, they ran into firemen sitting on the stairs, exhausted from climbing in their heavy gear. Their hats were off or pushed to the back of their heads. With hollow eyes, like men heading into hell, they looked up at Pasquale as he led his group past. The men were sweating and worn out, with still many floors to climb. One, an Italian-looking, brown-haired fireman who appeared to be in his early thirties reassured them that the stairs were clear and that it would be an easy descent from there.
    As they headed into the thirty-something floors, they passed additional firemen. “If you wanna save time, get into Elevator Bank 27 on the twenty-fourth floor,” one of the men called out.
    But Pasquale knew better than to head that way. Even back in 1993, during the last bombing, he’d known it wasn’t a good idea to get into an elevator.
    “That’s the fastest way to get trapped and killed!” someone who agreed with his assessment called out.
    Another rescue worker made his way up toward them, his feet hitting each step with a loud smack of his boots. He looked at Pasquale and the others and nodded. “It’s all fine, a clear run. Just keep going,” he said and plodded on up the stairs.
    They got down to the twenty-ninth floor, then twenty-eighth, twenty-seventh, and twenty-sixth. They kept up their slow, but steady pace: twenty-fifth, twenty-fourth…
    Pasquale looked at the number plate on the wall.