Sep 10, 2014
"Oh, Jesus," I heard someone say. "They’re jumping." Every few moments a body would fall from the North Tower, from about ninety floors up. The jumpers all seemed to come from the floors that were engulfed in flames. Sometimes they jumped in pairs - one just after another. They were up so high, it took ten to twelve seconds for each of then to hit the ground. I counted. What must have been going through their minds, to choose certain death? Was it a decision between one death and another? Or maybe it wasn’t a decision at all, their bodies involuntarily recoiling from the heat, the way you pull your hand off a hot stove.
"The First Hours" Timothy Townsend