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September 11, 2008
I walk around the city for a while after my interview, uncertain how I feel about being here on this anniversary. Just as I decide that there’s nothing that disturbing about it, I walk past an East Village fire department. The outside is hung with black crepe, the big bay doors are all open, and two dozen of New York’s Bravest in their dress uniforms loiter about the space uncomfortably, clearly at loose ends and unsure what to do, and obviously unhappy about the day. None of them meet my eyes, and I continue on my way, considering and reconsidering