The man staggers in, staggers from weariness and not from drink. He pulls off the slick, black protective coat and drops it on the floor by a barstool. A small cloud of cement dust rises from the coat, and the man drops a fireman's helmet on the heap. He pushes the goggles up on his forehead, revealing a youthful pair of brown eyes surrounded by pink flesh, contrasting with the powder-pallor of the rest of his visage. "Beer" he says.

He drinks deeply, as the others at the bar pause to glance at him. He puts down the cold glass and licks his lips and says "I'm going to need another." And the bartender recognizes the voice and says "Joey? Joe Scampinetti?" and the fireman nods, and the bartender says "Thank God you made it!" And as if they all of them knew him, the patrons raise their glasses in his honor, and Joey says "no" and turns to look at them, and the tears have made dark rivulets down his cheeks, and he says "no, don't drink to me. There are so many who didn't make it. My best friend is still underneath the Tower." And their eyes look down, and Joey says to the bartender "you know him. We play pool in here every Friday night..played pool." The dregs of the beer drain into his throat. "He and his wife have a baby." And Joe Scampinetti picks up his coat and helmet and says "no, drink to Tommy and 250 guys like him. And drink to never letting it happen again."

The patrons raise their glasses, and Joey steps out into the street, where a gray rain begins to spatter on the sidewalk and pool in the gutters, and to carry its freight of concrete dust to the East River, and the sea.