I was at the office early that gorgeous September morning. My assistant at ABC was also there. She had a young friend who worked near the Trade Center who called her and said to turn on the television, something weird was going on. I immediately called our news desk and headed downtown with a satellite truck. We were clearly going in the wrong direction. Waves of people, vacant-eyed people walked by us heading north. The truck got stopped by the police but my producer and I continued on foot. Within an hour or so of the first plane hitting the Trade Center, we’d talked our way into the command center. It was totally silent. A horrible deadly silence. I found a payphone — our cells weren’t working — and talked to Peter Jennings live on the air. I told him that, so far, no survivors had made it to the trauma center on the East Side.

We walked through the dusty, silent corridors of New York west to Chelsea Piers. I remember running into Lesley Stahl and her crew. Thousands of doctors and nurses had assembled at the Pier to receive the injured. By midnight not one patient had shown up. A nurse waved me over: "Cynthia, you won’t remember me but I was in the delivery room when your baby was born. Off the record," she continued, "people either made it out, or they didn’t. There are not going to be any wounded coming here."

I called Jennings and asked to speak to him privately. "Peter," I said, "sources down here say that people either made it out or they didn’t. The survivors are safely out now. No one is going to come here." Remember that at this point no one knew for sure how many people were in the towers that morning, but some estimates were that as many as 30,000 people could have been inside when the planes hit. Peter said, "Cynthia, it’s too early for this. When I come to you on the air, don’t report this. People won’t be able to absorb it yet." It was such a human judgment, such a correct one. Jennings was at his best throughout. Wise, calm, insightful. I was proud to be a small part of ABC’s coverage of 9/11 for which I am happy to say we won a DuPont Award.

What else do I remember?

The dozens and dozens of people who came up to me when they’d see the camera, begging me to help them find their loved ones. One young woman stands out. She was 17 and had a ten-year-old and a seven-year-old with her. It was September 12. Her mother was in the first tower. High up. Their father was not in their lives. She pushed through the barriers as we were live on "Good Morning America," sobbing, "What am I supposed to do? She was all we have." As I struggled not to speak, Charlie Gibson said quietly, a catch in his voice, "It’s OK to cry Cynthia, hug her for us."

The cop who hugged me at Ground Zero and said, "None of us must ever forget this."

Going to the home of a firefighter who wasn’t supposed to be working that day, but insisted on going to the scene. Keeping his mass card on our refrigerator. Spencer, then three, calling him "our fireman." The sad eyes of his widow and children.

What do I remember?

Staggering home after several days to find Spencer standing on the living-room sofa with a towel serving as a cape, "Mommy, I am Superman and I am going to save those people."