side window in an attempt to obtain a clear view of what had happened. Pedestrians were running toward and past his car, away from a mass of black smoke that spiraled upward less than a block away. Climbing out of the sedan, Rosenfeld strained his eyes to identify the location of the blast. He spotted the sign marking the restaurant Bellaroma. And there was the Essex. But he was looking for Sandrino’s, which was between the two.
Rosenfeld pushed past his security detail, jogging toward the source of the chaos, dodging the men and women fleeing in the opposite direction. An explosion had destroyed one of the cafés. Rosenfeld’s pace increased as his desperation mounted, and he soon found himself in a full sprint toward the carnage a hundred feet ahead, his security detail matching his pace. A moment later, he spotted the shattered red-and-green Sandrino’s sign on the ground.
The sidewalk and street were littered with broken glass, splintered wood, and the twisted metal remnants of tables and chairs; fires burned inside the destroyed café. The shrieks of terrified onlookers gave way to the cries of the wounded—screams of agony mingled with low, muffled moans. Somewhere among the carnage— God, please spare their lives —were his two daughters. Rosenfeld reached the first woman lying unconscious on the pavement. His pulse pounded as he turned over the teenage girl, relief coursing through his body as he stared at a stranger’s face. He hurried to the next body a few feet away, then the next.
Then up ahead, there was someone who could be his daughter; long, straight black hair, the lavender sweater he’d bought each of them for their last birthday. As Rosenfeld turned over the fourth body, his blood chilled in his veins. A young girl looked up at him, recognition in her eyes as she stared at her father. She was still alive, but …
Rosenfeld fell to his knees, drawing his daughter onto his lap, resting her shoulders on his thighs and her head in the crook of his arm. He knew she was his daughter by the sweater she wore, the topaz ring on her finger. But her face was too mangled for him to determine which of his daughters he held. She lifted her hand, her blood-smeared fingers caressing the side of his face as if to comfort him, to help assuage the grief that would soon overwhelm him. Her mouth moved, but no words came out. Only the horrid gurgling of air pushing past fluid, until she finally closed her mouth, forcing the blood out and down the side of her face. She kept her eyes focused on his, and Rosenfeld watched as the illumination within her beautiful brown eyes faded, until the light was extinguished altogether and her hand fell to the ground.
A strange hush fell on the scene of devastation. It took a moment for Rosenfeld to realize his mind was selectively filtering the sounds, letting through only those that seemed to matter. A man sobbed as he knelt in the middle of the street, stroking the cheek of a woman who lay beside him, her eyes open and unblinking, staring at the cloudless sky. Nearby, a woman on her hands and knees retched noisily, her vomit splattering against the curb. Slowly, the low moans of the injured could be heard all around him, and then, faintly in the background, the high-pitched sirens of approaching ambulances grew gradually louder until the full terror registered in his ears.
Rocking his daughter in his arms, Rosenfeld searched for her sister, finally locating her ten feet away. Rachel lay on her stomach with her head turned to the side, her eyes frozen open in death’s stare, her face surrounded by a crimson pool spreading slowly across the gray pavement. Dragging Sarah over to her sister, Rosenfeld clutched both daughters tightly against his chest, attempting to squeeze the pain from his body. His breathing came in short, ragged gasps; there was no air. The curb and stores along the road began to tilt, slowly at first, then at an increasing rate as the world, it seemed, spun
Rosenfeld pushed past his security detail, jogging toward the source of the chaos, dodging the men and women fleeing in the opposite direction. An explosion had destroyed one of the cafés. Rosenfeld’s pace increased as his desperation mounted, and he soon found himself in a full sprint toward the carnage a hundred feet ahead, his security detail matching his pace. A moment later, he spotted the shattered red-and-green Sandrino’s sign on the ground.
The sidewalk and street were littered with broken glass, splintered wood, and the twisted metal remnants of tables and chairs; fires burned inside the destroyed café. The shrieks of terrified onlookers gave way to the cries of the wounded—screams of agony mingled with low, muffled moans. Somewhere among the carnage— God, please spare their lives —were his two daughters. Rosenfeld reached the first woman lying unconscious on the pavement. His pulse pounded as he turned over the teenage girl, relief coursing through his body as he stared at a stranger’s face. He hurried to the next body a few feet away, then the next.
Then up ahead, there was someone who could be his daughter; long, straight black hair, the lavender sweater he’d bought each of them for their last birthday. As Rosenfeld turned over the fourth body, his blood chilled in his veins. A young girl looked up at him, recognition in her eyes as she stared at her father. She was still alive, but …
Rosenfeld fell to his knees, drawing his daughter onto his lap, resting her shoulders on his thighs and her head in the crook of his arm. He knew she was his daughter by the sweater she wore, the topaz ring on her finger. But her face was too mangled for him to determine which of his daughters he held. She lifted her hand, her blood-smeared fingers caressing the side of his face as if to comfort him, to help assuage the grief that would soon overwhelm him. Her mouth moved, but no words came out. Only the horrid gurgling of air pushing past fluid, until she finally closed her mouth, forcing the blood out and down the side of her face. She kept her eyes focused on his, and Rosenfeld watched as the illumination within her beautiful brown eyes faded, until the light was extinguished altogether and her hand fell to the ground.
A strange hush fell on the scene of devastation. It took a moment for Rosenfeld to realize his mind was selectively filtering the sounds, letting through only those that seemed to matter. A man sobbed as he knelt in the middle of the street, stroking the cheek of a woman who lay beside him, her eyes open and unblinking, staring at the cloudless sky. Nearby, a woman on her hands and knees retched noisily, her vomit splattering against the curb. Slowly, the low moans of the injured could be heard all around him, and then, faintly in the background, the high-pitched sirens of approaching ambulances grew gradually louder until the full terror registered in his ears.
Rocking his daughter in his arms, Rosenfeld searched for her sister, finally locating her ten feet away. Rachel lay on her stomach with her head turned to the side, her eyes frozen open in death’s stare, her face surrounded by a crimson pool spreading slowly across the gray pavement. Dragging Sarah over to her sister, Rosenfeld clutched both daughters tightly against his chest, attempting to squeeze the pain from his body. His breathing came in short, ragged gasps; there was no air. The curb and stores along the road began to tilt, slowly at first, then at an increasing rate as the world, it seemed, spun
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