Greg Ziegler, a part-time student, is pursuing an MA in business journalism and an MBA simultaneously. We witnessed the second plane explosion from our windows, which was pretty horrific. Some saw the plane go by our building; I heard it and turned in time to see the explosion. Once the tower collapsed, our building was evacuated, but since I live in New Jersey I had nowhere to go. Some left for the Brooklyn Bridge because we heard they were allowing foot traffic. Other people who live in New Jersey gathered, and we left to walk to Chelsea Piers because we heard there was a ferry in operation. Downtown was blanketed with smoke, soot, and ash, and we walked holding water-soaked napkins over our mouths and noses, stepping over burned papers and debris. At the corner of Beaver and Broad, we stepped over a single high-heeled dress shoe. How it came to rest there I don't know, but it was a disconcerting sight. Every corner held a contingent of ambulances and police and EMT workers. Eventually, we made it to the piers, but we heard there was a six-hour wait for a ferry. The lines for the ferry were 10 people wide and seemingly thousands long. We took a bus up to 59th Street, then a cab to 179th because we thought we could walk across the George Washington Bridge. It was closed to foot traffic, but they were sending buses across, and again the lines were long, the crowd immense. People were begging drivers in cars to take them across the bridge, and for the most part people were opening their doors. I found a guy driving a pickup truck and asked him if he would mind taking us across the bridge; he waved us in, so we climbed into the back. One of the guys I was traveling with called his wife and she met us in Jersey, and he then drove us all to our homes or cars. It took me about six hours to get home. I haven't done anything today except lie on the floor and play with my 5-month-old daughter, who is sweet and innocent and smiles at everything I do. A tea set in a Cedar Street apartment, still covered with dust from the collapse of the previous week. Edward Keating/NYT Pictures. Kathy Loughran is a part-time student in the Master's Program in Business Journalism. I had a close, unobstructed view of the events. My office is about 20 blocks north of the World Trade Center towers, and I saw the second plane hit and both buildings collapse. It took a little while for everyone in my office to realize that we were not watching TV. It was unbelievable. Several people in my office had a loved one or friend in the WTC. One branch of my company was in there too. We were terrified. At first, we were told not to leave the building, then we were told by the police to get out of the area as fast as we could. I walked with many of my colleagues; we were just numb and scared. It looked like the end of the world. People were crying and screaming, police cars and ambulances were racing everywhere. We knew which ambulances had been at the scene because they would race by us and scatter the ash that was inches thick on their roofs and their hoods into our faces as we walked. So many roads were blocked off in Manhattan that people were just walking to bridges to try to get out of the city. There were so many people and so few cars. I walked from Hudson Street all the way up to the Queensborough Bridge and went over it into Queens to go home. Many people were on the bridge and several people were remarking that maybe the bridges would be hit by terrorists. We were all freaked out. Once I got to the other side of the bridge, I saw my father-in-law, who had come to pick me up. I've never in my life been so happy to see a familiar face. My office was closed the next day because of its proximity to the WTC. I didn't want to venture back into the city. But I know I will. I know that I have to go to work and to school. But it is just so difficult to fathom. I know that none of us will ever be the same again. Debora Duerksen is a part-time student in the Master's Program in Business Journalism. She sent this note on Sept. 23. For the past week, I have been in and out of Fire Station 24 on 31st Street, directly across from the Franciscan church that housed Father Mychal Judge, the Fire Department chaplain who died at the World Trade Center. Two elderly Vietnamese women keep the memorial candles burning, and they don't charge you a penny if you want to light one. Through a group of firefighters from Mississippi, who are attached to that engine company, I've learned that, contrary to popular belief, most of the state governments not only refused to send their local firefighters to New York, but actually forbade them to take leave to come here and are not paying them while they are up here. Those who came here took vacation time to do it. They came for one reason: New York, and therefore America, was attacked. These guys from Mississippi are impressive. In addition to their full-time jobs as firefighters, each has a second job. One is a celebrated radio DJ. Another renovates houses. I tell them that my concept of their home state dates back to when Dennis Hopper got shot off his motorcycle in Easy Rider. Three of them aren't old enough to know what Easy Rider was. They've spent their days here sifting through debris looking for airplane and body parts. I ask them if they've been to any of our museums. The one who answers me doesn't even make eye contact. He says, "We're not here to see the sights. We're here to work."