Twenty-five years ago, I flew into Nice, France, for a business meeting—and arrived early in the afternoon of September 11. Later, as I walked into the convention center, I looked up at the TVs attached to the walls. They were tuned in to CNN, and although the sound was so low I couldn’t hear the announcer, what I saw shocked and confused me. A plane was hitting the first of the World Trade Towers. What the fuck is going on? I breathed.

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