Bright sunlight filtered through the awnings of the medical tent pitched in Copley Square, where I joined the many medical professionals caring for people who'd fallen ill from their 26.2-mile run. Some volunteers had been staffing the medical tent for years - one nurse had worked at the Boston Marathon more than 25 times.
Sickened and stressed runners poured into our makeshift hospital. A runner stumbled in and vomited into a bag. We helped him onto a cot, where he sat shivering. "You're OK," a nurse said gently, wiping his face. But his core temperature had dropped to 96 degrees, and he began having violent rigors. We brought him Mylar blankets and hot bouillon. Nearby, a woman with intense hamstring spasms fell onto a cot; a runner with liver disease trembled with asterixis, his eyes roving in wild saccades.
Suddenly, there was a loud, sickening blast. My ears were ringing, and then - a long pause. Everyone in the tent stopped and looked up. A dehydrated woman grabbed my wrist. "What was that?" she cried. "Don't leave." I didn't move. John Andersen, a medical coordinator, took the microphone. "Everybody stay with your patients," he said, "and stay calm." Then we smelled smoke - a dense stench of sulfur - and heard a second explosion, farther off but no less frightening. Despite the patient's plea, I walked out the back of the tent and saw a crowd running from a cloud of smoke billowing around the finish line. "There are bombs," a woman whispered. My hands began to shake.
.../cont/...
