On any other Tuesday morning, I would have been arriving at work just around when the first plane hit the Twin Towers’ North Tower. A few days later, the Daf Yomi (Bava Kama 35a) recounted how Rav Papa’s cow, suffering from his own toothache, uncovered one of the Amora’s beer barrels—Rav Papa sold beer—and performed his own self-medication. Ever since, I have prided myself on being as smart as Rav Papa’s cow. (Rav Papa’s cow would never have been so negligent.) Until I got to the dentist’s office, when, walking into the waiting room, I saw everyone gathered around a television, watching as a second plane hit the South Tower.