Randall Laurence nearly snapped the top off his alarm clock as he pounded one fist to silence it. Five o’clock. What an ungodly hour.

Randall stood up, stretched, yawned, and proceeded to the bathroom where he accidentally nicked himself with the razor. After shrugging his clothes on and twisting his tie until it interfered with his ability to breathe, a small slip of paper drifted to the floor from his jacket pocket.

Don’t go to work today.

He smiled, thinking it was a playful message from his wife. He picked the piece up and tossed it in the trash on his way out.

As he stepped out onto the sidewalk by his apartment, his cell phone buzzed. He flicked it open.

Don’t go to work today.

There was no number. Randall frowned, snapped it shut a little apprehensively. In twenty minutes, his workplace’s buildings drew into view.

One last, pensive thought crossed Randall’s mind as his hand touched the doors to the World Trade Center’s north tower, but he shrugged it off and walked in.