From "World Trade Center Writers" by John Blandly

“Bernie, wake up,” Notlieb heard his wife say. She nudged him in the ribs. She had the phone in her hand.

Notlieb never answered the phone. The middle of the night was no exception.

“Yes, he’s right here,” Cecelia was saying, hitting him on the head with the receiver. “Take it,” she said.

“Here!”

Reluctantly, he picked up the phone.

It was Charlotte. “Can you come over here?” he heard her ask.

“Where? Over where?”

“The Marriott.”

“The Marriott?” He looked at the clock. “It’s 2 a.m.”

“Yes, please come over. On Wolf Road.”

“Wolf Road?”

“Yes, Wolf Road. The room’s in my name.”

“Why? Why do you need me to come over?”

“Booker. Booker’s been shot.”

“Booker’s been shot? Have you called anybody?”

“No. No, I can’t. Please come over here.”

“Alright,” Notlieb said. “Okay.”