Tim Marcin - Nonfiction
I spent the night with my friends watching the coverage. And the people on the television told all the harrowing details they could manage. Outside the window, Boston seemed lonelier then I had ever seen a city. Everyone was in their homes, huddled around the electric light of television screens, trying to piece together the day. If you didn’t know any better, you would think the city was cowering.
But then I saw the two soldiers, tearing through the fence at the finish line to help the wounded. And I saw the runners fashioning tourniquets from their shirts, rushing to help after mazing around Boston for 25 miles. And I saw everyone in the room, watching the replayed horror, eyes lit with compassion.
The next morning I got in my car and drove a few hundred miles south to Chestertown. As I left Boston, there was no traffic, but when I looked to my left the highway was bumper-to-bumper. The people were rushing back into their city.