At 2:50 on Monday afternoon , with a spring sun casting crisp shadows across Boylston Street, two bombs detonated in close succession, turning the city’s largest annual public gathering into a tableau of glass and blood. Exhausted marathoners wheeled in shock, stumbled, collapsed. Doctors expecting to treat leg cramps found themselves running trauma units instead.
The disbelief curdled into anger—who could have done this?—and a profound sense of worry. Was there enough security? Did someone carrying a bomb really walk undisturbed so close to the finish line of the city’s most famous annual event? A feeling of vulnerability coursed through Boston like an aftershock. If it could happen at the Boston Marathon, it could happen anywhere in the city.