Walking through the front door, Elsa Gronlund Griffin quickly flipped on the television, noting a smoldering field from a crashed plane on the screen, and continued toward the answering machine. The red light was blinking. She had three messages.
The first was from a friend. The second was from her mother, Doris Gronlund, just to say hello.
The third was her sister’s voice.
“Elsa, it’s Lin,” she started.
“Um. I only have a minute. I’m on United 93, and it’s been hijacked, uh, by terrorists who say they have a bomb.”
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