The radiologist left in a hurry, an ultrasound humming, the screen turned at an angle I couldn't see— my belly cold and sticky with gel. When the doctor pointed to the image explaining what went wrong, I caressed the baby I couldn't sustain. I lost a lot of blood that Monday at the Chilton Memorial. Back home, bent in two I rocked and cried. The next day a friend called before nine a.m. urging me to turn the TV on. On the screen, flight 175 and the South Tower on fire. My husband came home late that night. His ashen hair smelled of burnt flesh. Nobody mentioned Nina.