PART 1 — THE WHITE HOUSE GATE
The man at the front of the line handed me an invitation with the wrong date printed on it.
I held it beside his identification while the crowd behind him pressed toward the metal detectors.
“Thursday,” I said, pointing to the invitation.
“Yours says Wednesday.”
He leaned closer.
Then laughed.
“My wife handles these things.
I just show up where she tells me.”
“Then she keeps you busy.”
He smiled, took the invitation, and moved toward the next security station.
At 4:35 that Thursday afternoon, the White House East Gate was already crowded.
Dark suits.
Evening dresses.
Military uniforms.
Staff members carrying folders.
Security officers redirecting guests into separate lanes.
I had been assigned to help check military credentials and keep the entrance moving.
My dress uniform had been pressed that morning.
Eighteen dollars at a strip-mall dry cleaner.
I had checked my left cuff twice before leaving the office.
A woman in a red coat handed me her invitation.
“Is the reception inside the main building?”
“Yes, ma’am.
Follow the signs after screening.”
She nodded.
Then someone pushed against my shoulder.
“Excuse me.
We’re trying to get through.”
I turned.
Trevor stood there holding his phone.
For one second, neither of us moved.
He looked older than when I had last seen him, though I could not have said exactly how.
Same careful haircut.
Same habit of glancing at his phone when a room became uncomfortable.