What Happened at the Boston Marathon Bombing? A Personal Tale: When Just a Few Minutes Matter

My legs burned, but I was sick of waiting. I took a wide loop back toward the Lenox. I walked. I ran some more. I could see the hotel. I limped up to an officer standing in front of yellow caution tape.

“Where are you going?”

“That’s my hotel.”

“It’s closed, it’s been evacuated. There’s no way you’re getting anywhere near there.”

I hobbled back out to the intersection just as my phone buzzed. It was my wife. My brother had heard from my mom. He said she’d borrowed somebody’s cell phone and texted to let him know that she was OK. She was headed to the hotel.

I sunk down on a sidewalk planter. Everything wasn’t OK. But for that moment, knowing that my family was safe, I felt better. I looked down and realized I was still tightly grasping the bag of Hawaiian rolls. I absent-mindedly began to eat.

A reporter with cameraman in tow headed in my direction. She asked if I ran the race and if I’d mind taking to her. I didn’t mind. I told her what I saw from the window. I said I was concerned about my mom but was relieved when I’d heard that she was OK. She asked if I had any takeaways from what happened. I said I didn’t know much about what happened, so it was a little early for that.

“Are you angry?” She asked.

“Angry?” I had no idea. I was confused. “No. I’m not. I’m… no I’m not angry.” She ended the interview.

I asked what they’d seen. They were right there. They’d seen blood. Lots of blood. Limbs hanging off. People terrified. I said I was sorry — the physical injuries are awful, but it’s got to be scarring to have to witness that kind of carnage. They thanked me and left.

My phone lit up.