A quarter-century ago, on the Tuesday morning of September 11, 2001, I took a late commuter train from Westchester to the Manhattan Institute’s offices. Around Spuyten Duyvil, the flip phones-those old Nokias and Motorolas-started ringing, followed by nervous murmuring. “A plane hit the World Trade Center,” someone said. The train slowed, then continued on. I felt a sense of dread: Could it really be an accident? By the time I arrived at Grand Central Terminal, the second plane had struck, and everyone knew it wasn’t-New York City was under attack. Police were everywhere, and the trains were…