A few of the guests were grouped around a small screen that had been set up in the front room, but most were packed into the main room with the big TV. I peered in through the arch. Marco beckoned me over, making a space next to him behind the old thrift store sofa. Hanan was on the other side, squeezed up close with her hands linked over his shoulder in an uncharacteristically demonstrative pose. The debate was in full swing. There was a lot of raucous commentary from the guests, some of whom appeared to be live-tweeting the event, but the volume was up high and it was easy enough to hear what the candidates were saying. Distraction—my objective at that moment—seemed possible. One of the moderators was pushing the Republican on the things he’d said on the leaked tapes, and he was repeating the phrase “locker-room talk” like a spell, as if it might ward off the general revulsion he’d aroused if he said it enough times. The guests were laughing, some imitating the schoolyard intonations of his voice, others mocking the lacquered fiasco of his hair. His crude attempt at turning the tables with an attack on his opponent’s use of a private email server prompted loud booing. He looked at the camera, and from the scowl on his face—lower lip protruding, jaw clenched tight—it almost seemed he was hearing us.

“Look! He’s making his Churchill face. The British bulldog!”

“Too bad he has such a wussy mouth!”

“Is it me or is there something obscene about it? Like it’s a little anus that grew in the wrong place . . . ?”

“Wait, what’s he saying? Quiet everyone . . .”