Thunder Dog - Michael Hingson [47]
We’ve already navigated down 1,463 stairs today. What are a few more?
“Forward,” I say. We rush in, leaving the death and destruction and chaos behind. At least for a while.
David wipes at his eyes and tries to make out the sign: FULTON STREET SUBWAY STATION. As we walk down the stairs, we’re rubbing our eyes and wiping our noses and brushing off the dust as best we can. I’m coughing and snorting, trying to clear my lungs.
Roselle is panting; then she sneezes a few times. I wonder how she’s doing. Going through something like this must be pushing her to exhaustion. But she doesn’t show any strain. Her walk is light, steady, and sure. The noise of the tower settling, along with the emergency vehicles and frenzied voices outside, must be alarming to her sharp canine ears. But she gives no sign that it bothers her.
We reach the bottom of the stairs and discover a larger space. It turns out to be a small arcade leading into the subway station. I hear crying.
“I can’t see! My eyes are full of dirt,” a woman wails. “I can’t see! I don’t want to fall into the subway.”
I give Roselle a nudge with the harness, and we walk toward the voice. I’m no superhero, but I think I can help.
I reach out with my right hand and touch her arm.
She quiets.
I gently take her arm and tuck it into mine.
“Please don’t worry.” I keep my voice measured and low. “I am blind, and I have a guide dog named Roselle. She will help us and keep us from falling down the stairs into the subway.” Roselle stands quietly, waiting.
The woman responds, clutching my arm. This time the blind really is leading the blind, but why should that be unusual? After all, helping this lady is what teamwork is all about.
I hear someone coming up the stairs from farther down in the station. It’s a man, he says his name is Lou, and he works in the subway. “Follow me,” he says, his voice urgent.
Other refugees have wandered in from the street, and now there are eight of us. Lou leads the group down the stairs and a hallway and then through a doorway into the employee locker room. It’s quiet inside, clean and cool. An oscillating fan stirs the air. There is a water fountain against the wall, and we take turns cleaning up and washing out our eyes and mouths. Water never tasted so good. Roselle flops down to rest on the cool floor.
When not at the water fountain, we sit on the locker room benches and rest. My head is spinning. So much has happened in such a short time, and my mind reels, going over the events and trying to make sense of the explosion, the fire, the freight train/ waterfall noise, and the dust cloud. But even though my mind is racing, trying to put the pieces together in some sort of order, my heart is calm and peaceful. I relive the sound of the building’s collapse and my desperate prayer. God’s voice was so clear. And I still feel that same inner peace, even though we almost died.
I know others have died. There could be hundreds or even thousands who have perished in the fire, the building collapse, or from the debris. I could have so easily died if the building had fallen a little differently, if we had taken a different path, or if we had moved at a slower pace.
What if we had worked for a while longer trying to shut down the computers in the office before we left? We could still be in the stairwell right now. But we are not. Roselle and I are here, safe for the moment, underground with a guy named Lou.
God spared my life and he spoke to me. There must be a reason. But I don’t have time to figure it out because just then, a police officer bursts into the locker room. He is covered in dust too.
“The air is starting to clear,” he says. “It’s time to move out. I have orders to evacuate the station.” I check my watch. We’ve been in the station about ten minutes, but we follow his orders. Who knows what else is going to happen?