It was the last day of my four-month interview to hold the job as a salesman in the World Trade Center -- in simpler words, an end to being perfect for four months. I took the last drop of my coffee, pushed in my chair, and said goodbye to my family -- little did they know, this could have been my final goodbye.  I went to room 911, as I had the past three times, to meet my boss, Mr. Clarke. I was just about to have a seat, when suddenly I heard the sound of explosion. Then, the floor beneath my feet began shaking, which was when I began to realize that something had gone completely wrong. "Run! Let's get out of here!" Mr. Clarke cried. Seconds after the first massive explosion, I heard another explosion from way above. My heartbeat seemed to be the drum of a heavy-metal song and all the employees were rushing to get out; the lifts were out of order, and only screaming could be heard up and down the stairwell. All of us were unaware at the time that this was the airplane hitting the tower. Fire then began to swallow the walls and all you could see is gray smoke. Mr. Clarke had fallen and went unconscious. I used all my strength to throw his heavy weight on my shoulders and run down the steps. I then felt myself sinking into the floor. I ran and ran, but I was not going anywhere. The only option left was to jump. With Mr. Clarke still lying in my arms, I closed my eyes and jumped. My boss safely reached the edge of the trampoline   a group of firemen held beneath us. However, I landed on the concrete   floor and suffered a broken back and neck, which was considered lucky. When did the author realize that something bad had happened?
After he saw the room number. When the floor started shaking. Before he said goodbye to his family. When fire began to swallow the walls.