On September 11, 2001, my husband and I were living in Wichita, Kansas, relocated there by his career in aerospace. On that day, I was convalescing from a serious illness that had hospitalized me for a month. I was idly channel surfing when there was a newsbreak—an airplane, a Boeing 767-200, had crashed into the North Tower of New York’s World Trade Center. I immediately called my husband at work; anything to do with airplanes is of crucial concern. Switching to CNN, I thought about the people on the plane and in the building. What a horrible accident, I thought.