Ron told himself that Ruth must have been a beacon of calm at the very end. He thought she must have comforted Juliana, holding her close as their plane veered wildly then dipped low over Manhattan, perhaps whispering an Irish lullaby in her ear. A thought both harrowing and strangely comforting entered Ron’s mind. At the instant of Ruth and Juliana’s murders, when Flight 175 pierced the South Tower, he’d been nearby. He’d felt the shock wave in every cell of his body.
