"This is the final call for all passengers to board flight BA192 to Washington, this is the final call, can all passengers go straight to gate 13."

July 7th 2005, ten second snap-shot; a goofy young Asian guy is in front of me buying a Mars bar, I’m in a drug store, King’s Cross Station, London. He turns to me, he’s short ten pence, I give it to him.

"Take it easy."

It’s early morning. I’m in a suit, I look down, I have smart shoes on. I walk out to the front of the station, it’s summer, it’s bright. I see the big white letters scroll across the top and I board a number 30 bus to Hackney Wick.

This is all I have of that afternoon; Shards, flickers, facts.

Here’s the facts: My name is Miles Cooper, born in Washington DC, 1982. I’ve won everything I’ve ever touched. I graduated top of my class and became the most successful broker Merrill Lynch had ever seen. I was the glory boy of the trading floor, making more money than I knew what to do with. My father was planning my biography before I was out of my teens; he always used to say to me, "Miles, fifteen to fifty, make sure there’s not a blank page, you’re going to hit the top and keep on going, boy." In April 2005 the Washington office decided my skill was good enough to export, so I was going to London.

Tick tick tick …boom.

I had lent Hasib Mir Hussain ten pence to buy a Mars bar ten minutes before he boarded a bus to Hackney Wick and pressed detonate. He killed himself and thirteen other people that day. I, the one American on board, got out alive. I figure that would have pissed him off, right? Maybe he didn’t catch the accent or maybe he was grateful for his final Mars Bar so he gave me some space.

I incurred some memory loss. Things broke up a little, fractured, so to speak. Everything from before the accident had a hard time holding together.

University College Hospital informed my family of my injuries and told them I would return stateside as soon as I was able. Merrill Lynch covered the costs, and I was booked to fly back to Dullus airport, Washington DC, BA first class, August 2 2005.

My mother and my pregnant wife were waiting; they were excited to be having me home.

I think about Hasib Mir Hussain a lot. They printed his photo in the paper a week after the accident. I carry it in my pocket. He looked young, kind a dopey, he was lost. I remember his face when he asked me for that ten pence, he smiled at me. He didn’t look like a murderer; he looked like a teenager that was happy to have ten pence. He bit into that Mars bar, like a kid that knew it was the last chocolate bar he was ever going to taste. I’m glad I lent him that money. I owe him.

The night my flight left, I stayed in Heathrow airport in a coffee shop; I just sat and watched the world walk past me. Everyone hiding behind newspapers or with music in their ears, eyes down and solitary but always acting like somebody was watching, performing in their own tiny little music videos. I watched all those people, like a million little Charlies all hunting for the golden ticket, all desperate to believe that the chocolate factory still exists.

And then the sun rose, and I walked. I walked out of the departure lounge; out of Heathrow airport. I walked onto a train, I walked out of Paddington Station, I walked through the city of London. That was the day I walked away.