“What?” the girl said, making the word sound three syllables long, and dangerous. Despite having only had a handful of interactions with them, Natalie had taken to thinking of the whole cadre of DC desk assistants as the What Girls, in honor of their ability to turn that innocuous word into an implement of obstruction.

“Natalie Savage. At the White House—”

The What Girl sighed. “Hold on, I’ll see if I can find her.” And hung up.

Natalie called back and got a different What Girl, whom she hoped she’d convinced to track down someone other than herself.

And then a miracle happened. Natalie’s earpiece crackled to life. Suddenly she could hear ATN broadcasting its show, the anchor talking about the White House briefing that was about to begin. She perked up and said into the mic, “Hey! New York. I’m here, you coming to me?” When no one answered, she tried to get the control room’s attention with a delicate princess wave—hand in front of her chest, just her wrist moving from side to side.

Her cell phone started to vibrate.

“Natalie, you do know you’re live on TV, don’t you?” the voice barked. Natalie’s stomach tightened. It was another What Girl.

“We’re live? Are they coming to me?” Natalie asked.

“No. You’re live on CNN and Fox and it looks like you have palsy. What are you doing? Bibb says to stop waving like that.”

“No problem,” Natalie said brightly, dropping her hand. Never show annoyance, never be less than enthusiastic, she intoned her mantras to herself, two rules she had learned early on. Calmly she said, “I was just trying to get the control room’s attention. No one is talking to me. Do you know when they’re coming to me?”

“They’re not. They don’t need you on camera. They’re having Heath cover it from the studio. Bibb says you should concentrate on prepping for the briefing. Maybe you’ll get to ask a question.”

The What Girl said it as though it were a joke rather than a real suggestion. Natalie’s chest went tight as fear welled up inside into her, that echoing, hollow-inside emotion that felt just like a breakup, being found not good enough, not loveable enough—We don’t want you.

She hung up, sat down, and removed the earpiece as her mind launched into a mess of recriminations. She’d done everything they asked. She’d run toward the Biloxi inferno when everyone else was running away; stayed outside during Hurricane Moe when everyone else evacuated; waded hip deep into snake-infested flood waters because they wanted the shot. And for what? To get here. Where they wouldn’t come to her.