NEW YORK — Sal Argano knows he is a man living on borrowed time. Twenty-five years ago, as the World Trade Center was struck by hijacked jets, Argano—a New York City firefighter—was in Brooklyn on loan to a different station. That twist of fate saved his life, sparing him from the immediate aftermath that leveled his home base: the small Manhattan firehouse located just across the intersection from the Twin Towers.
When he finally rushed downtown that day, he found his station, known as “Ten House,” badly damaged but still standing. He soon learned that six of his colleagues were among the 343 FDNY members who perished in the collapse.
“If I wasn’t sent out on rotation, there would have been a good chance I would not be here today,” Argano, now 65, says. “I think about that all the time.”
As the city approaches the 25th anniversary of the Sept. 11, 2001, attacks, Argano remains the last member still on staff from that original crew. For him, the firehouse is more than just a place of duty; it is a sacred archive. While the crews of Engine 10 and Ladder 10 continue to respond to emergency calls, they also serve as the public face of the 9/11 memorial, greeting thousands of tourists who flock to the site daily.
Outside the station, a bronze relief lists the names of the fallen, and inside, the atmosphere is a mix of high-stakes emergency service and solemn, historical reverence. Capt. Terence Brody, who joined the station in 2016 and is now set to retire, notes that Ten House is a global landmark. “People around the world know this firehouse,” Brody said. “They’re going to come by and say hello.”
The transition of the area from a smoldering, apocalyptic wasteland to a bustling memorial plaza has been surreal for the firefighters who have served there. Robert Favata, a veteran of the station since 2008, recalls arriving when the site was a massive, empty construction pit. “When I got here, there was nothing,” he says. “I never thought they were going to finish.”
For Argano, the mission has become increasingly focused on legacy. He spends much of his time near the bay doors, shaking hands and sharing stories with strangers. He acknowledges that the constant stream of inquiries can be exhausting, yet he views it as a vital responsibility. He works to ensure the younger firefighters—many of whom were born after 2001—understand the weight of the history behind their uniforms.
While colleagues like Brody are moving toward retirement, Argano says he isn’t ready to leave. He fears that when the last person who remembers that morning finally hangs up their gear, a vital piece of the firehouse’s soul will vanish.
“I’m not done,” Argano says. “I’m going to keep telling them what I know, what I saw, what I’ve been through.”
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