She told me that another plane had gone down a few miles outside of Pittsburgh and that I needed to be careful.Then my brother said something to me that I’m not sure he’d ever said to me before.“I love you, Bub,” he told me. “You look out for yourself.”I arrived at the closest of our chain newspapers a few minutes later, unshowered and wearing a baseball cap and blue jeans, still smelling of the beers from the night before, and was immediately told I needed to call the regional publisher for instructions.My job was to cull through the massive amounts of (dis)information and shape our coverage of events for the seven newspapers in our chain that were near Pittsburgh.To make matters worse, he told me he wanted me in Shanksville, Pa., to oversee the chain’s coverage of the crash of Flight 93.It was the worst three weeks of my life.My job required me to immerse myself in the thousands of stories (some true, most false) that were coming via our wire service providers every single day. I. I could hear the ceiling fan. "Nothing much. Why what's wrong?" I asked. She took a deep sigh. "We have an audit tomorrow," she said. I shook my head. I knew it was nearly time for that to come up. "Okay," I said. "We can come in early. They usually show up at seven. We should be able to get all the paperwork ready. I will call Luis now and see how we are doing floor-wise," I said. "Thanks. Don't know what I would do without you," Rachelle said. "Go home, Rach. Nothing you can do there tonight anyway," I said. "Okay, see you in the morning," She said. "Hey, Rach. Wear some comfortable shoes. We will be running around a lot," I said. "Thanks for the heads up," she said.~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ The night went by in a blink of an eye. It felt like I had gotten no sleep at all as I pulled into my parking spot. I saw Luis's truck. 'Thank god,' I said to myself. He was early for a change. He got out of the truck with a large cup of Cuban coffee. "Nectar of the gods," he said,.
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