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September 26, 2004
The cars and people below look so small, as if I were peering out of the window of a low flying airplane. The ambulances gather near the curb in front of my building – first one, then two, then five – their lights searing red and white across the shadowed apartment faces, reflected in a thousand windows. There is no sound: through the glass the scene plays out silently, the bodies lifted onto stretchers, the EMTs crumbling slowly, then another pedestrian, next a bicycle delivery boy, their bodies stretched out in pools of blood while the unseen gunmen fires again and again.