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September came, and then the attacks. Alongside the rest of the world, the trio hung on the endlessly looping, slow-motion, cinematic insanity. From the Central Plains, New York was a black plume on the farthest horizon. Troops were securing the Golden Gate Bridge. Anthrax started turning up in the nationβs sugar bowls. Then the bombs began to fall in Afghanistan. A broadcaster in Omaha declared, Itβs payback time, and all along the river came stony, unanimous assent.
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