I walked out the heavy brass doors of the Pierre and into the cool, humid New York night. The open sky after that suffocating ballroom was a physical relief.

Behind me came frantic footsteps. My father burst through the doors, tuxedo disheveled, face red with rage and desperation. “Thomas! Wait!” he screamed, running down the steps.

“You can’t just leave. I am your father. I made you.”

I stopped on the sidewalk. I didn’t turn right away; I let the silence stretch. Then I looked over my shoulder.

“No, Robert,” I said, barely above a whisper, yet carrying the weight of seventeen years. “The Army made me. The fire made me. You just made me leave.”

Before he could answer, a low, rhythmic thumping began to echo off the skyscrapers, rising from a vibration in the pavement to a deafening roar. Guests spilled out of the lobby, drawn by the noise, and looked up in shock.