On Feb. 26, 1993—a date often obscured by the enormity of 9/11—I went to work in one era and returned home with a glimpse of another marked by new perils and challenges. It was a little after noon on that snowy Friday when I felt a huge thunk as I was working on the 57th floor of 2 World Trade Center. The lights shut off and my computer went dead. I was a 39-year-old speechwriter in the Manhattan offices of Gov. After a long, puzzling moment, we got the directive: Grab your coats and head to the exit.

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