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  67. 3:46 a.m.

As he opens the door to the Ford Focus, he walks directly under the streetlight. As if sensing my gaze, he turns and looks up. We lock eyes. Then he gets in the car and drives off.

My last thought as my eyes close and I start falling is the chiseled features and piercing stare of the man.

The President of the United States.

:02

By the time I get to my feet, the first minute of my day has already come and gone. My neck is stiff, a consequence of sleeping in such an awkward position, but I count myself lucky. I hadn't hit my head on anything. No blood. No concussion.

I rub my neck as I peer out the window. An echo of the President's face plays over my eyes and I shake my head, eliciting a shooting pain through my sternocleidomastoid—the long muscle running from the clavicle to just below the ear. Could that really have been him? But it was. There wasn't a shadow of a doubt that the man I'd seen was Connor Sullivan. The 44th President of the United States.

I walk to the kitchen and sit down in front of the laptop. After a short couple seconds I have pulled up the bio of Connor Sullivan on Wikipedia. The once three-term Governor of Virginia has dark brown hair parted on the left and gray-green eyes that aren't unlike my own. But that's where the similarities end. Sullivan is the tallest president, dwarfing Lincoln by three inches and Madison by nearly fifteen. He is a head taller than me, which would put me eye-level with the most famous chin dimple in the free world. It only adds to his allure that he was an All-American small forward at Dayton.

I thought about adding a quick update to his long and tedious Wikipedia page: April 18th – murders woman in Alexandria, VA.

On this note, I search the local news outlets for an attack or murder, but come up empty.