My memory is a bit strained on the details, but I think it went something like this: As news broke of a MIT police officer being gunned down, followed by a hot-pursuit car chase between the two suspects in Monday’s bombing, I was bellied up to the Tavern’s rustic, centuries-old bar. I remember saying something like “blarphgmchp” out loud, which in my head sounded like “Good lord friends, this week has really been a doozie, what?” And that’s when I got a text by a girl I know who lives up a cruelly steep hill from the bar. At 2 a.m. To come over. Somewhere deep in the recesses of my brain, the little guy driving my core motor skills gave me just enough digital dexterity to reply with a “sure”. Shit’s hitting the fan, I thought. May as well.

The story of a one-nighter during the Boston lockdown. 

One Night Stand in Wartime - Attacks on Boston - Esquire