Note: This narrative continues Daisey's initial story directly after the World Trade Center attack.

I am writing this from my home in Brooklyn after leaving Manhattan. I have signed up for a time slot to give blood later this evening and have a few hours available before then.

After my last posting I made my way east through an urban moonscape--everywhere there is ash, abandoned bags in the street, people looking lost. I managed to get a cell line out to Jean-Michele, who is still in Seattle, and she helped me navigate with online maps as I plotted my exit strategy.

Bizarrely, I caught a taxi crosstown. I was standing at a corner, Iım not even certain where, and a taxi was sitting there. A very pushy woman, whom I will always be thankful for, barged her way into the cab. In a moment, without thinking, I climbed in too. The driver, a Pakistani guy who had an improbable smile, immediately took off.

The ash blocks out the sun downtown--itıs like driving in an impossible midnight, and even more impossible that Iım in a cab, with this woman who wonıt stop trying her cell phone and another man, my age, who looks like heıs been crying. Maybe he just has ash in his eyes. I know I do--I feel like I will never see properly again, though thatıs probably just trauma. I donıt even know where the driver is going. The crying man got someone on *his* cell phone, starts explaining what heıs seeing out the window. Itıs like having a narrator traveling with us--I only notice the things that he is describing as he describes them.

God bless that taxi driver--we never paid him. He let us all off, and I think he got out as well, near the Brooklyn Bridge. There are cops everywhere, people are herding themselves quite calmly, mutely, onto the bridge. We all walk across the Brooklyn Bridge, which is unbelievably beautiful, the wires and stone of the bridge surrounding us and the bright sun ahead, passing out of darkness.

No one is talking to each other, but there is a sense of warmth. Everyone has their cell phones out, fishing for a clear signal. Those who catch them talk hurriedly to families, friends, people in other cities, children in their homes. It is comforting to hear their voices, telling how they are okay, shhh, it's okay, Iım okay. As we walk out into the sunlight, I am so happy to be in this company, the company of people who are alright, those who walked out.

I was in the city today to turn in some of my book, I had stayed up all night writing and I was so worried--is it ready, have I done my work? Those questions seem small today--not unimportant, but smaller, in a new proportion. I kept thinking of how much I have left to do in my life, so many things that are undone, people I havenıt spoken to in years. It's overwhelming to feel everyone around me thinking the same thing, the restless thoughts trickling over this bridge as we come back to Brooklyn.

From the Promenade I stand with hundreds of others, listening to radios, watching the plumes of smoke and the empty holes in the skyline. People stand there for a long time, talk to one another in hushed tones. Someone hands out a flier for a vigil this evening, which I will go to after I give blood.

What can be said? Just this: we will emphasize the horror and the evil, and that is all true. It is not the entire story. I saw an old man with breathing problems and two black kids in baggy pants and ghetto gear rubbing his back, talking to him. No one was rioting or looting. People helped each other in small and tremendous ways all day longŠa family was giving away sandwiches at the Promenade. Everyone I talked to agreed to go give blood. If a draft had been held to train people to be firefighters there would have been fights to see who got to volunteer.

No matter how wide and intricate this act of evil may be it pales in comparison to the quiet dignity and strength of regular people. I have never been more proud of my country.

Editor's note: Mike Daisey is an author and playwright. His monologues include 21 Dog Years, Wasting Your Breath, and I Miss The Cold War. His first book based on his tenure at Amazon.com, will be published next spring by the Free Press, an imprint of Simon & Schuster.

Mike has allowed us to post his story he wrote for his website and email newsletter just before evacuating New York on foot. You are in our prayers, Mike.

Listen to Mike's audio interviews on WebTalkGuys Radio: