The piece ended with a flourish, Natalie escorted away by a cordon of sixteen motorcycles. At the end of the spot, Natalie had appeared on camera explaining that all of what had been shown had been made up, hypothetical—ATN had no reason to believe the First Lady had been kidnapped. She’d tried to make that point as forcefully as possible.

Still, as soon as the piece ended, the woman in the seat next to Natalie said, “So, who do you think kidnapped the First Lady?”

Didn’t she hear me say it was hypothetical? Natalie thought, feeling something that approached panic but stopped short.

“We made it all up,” Natalie said, trying to impress on her the meaning of hypothetical. “We don’t have any reason to believe that she’s been kidnapped.”

Shooting Natalie a disapproving look, the woman said, “Please. You wouldn’t do a kidnapping story if you didn’t know something we don’t. Was it the Arabs? Or the Colombians?”

Seeing the pointlessness of any counter argument, Natalie offered her a stiff sort of smile and said, “I sure wish we knew.”

“Mmm-hmm,” the woman continued, as she glanced down to Natalie’s lap and back up. “Word of advice? You should button up that shirt. No one’s going to take you seriously if you don’t dress like a lady.”

“Thanks for the feedback,” Natalie said, hoping she sounded cheery rather than homicidal.

Matt’s hand appeared from around the back of her seat with a handful of Xanax. He mimed taking one. She didn’t even have to debate this. Natalie accepted the blue pills and swallowed one without water.

She sat back in her chair and closed her eyes, embarrassment warring with gratification. Natalie knew the proper reaction was to shake her head at the incredible waste of resources for the pretend news story that had just aired. Imagine if we’d poured all that time and money into investigating where FLOTUS really is, or figuring out what the Lystras are up to. But a part of her felt almost giddy at the network’s support for her story.

“Excuse me.”

Natalie opened her eyes to find the same woman pointing at the arm rest and glaring.

“We’re supposed to share armrests.”

Sitting up, Natalie silently fumed. You don’t approve of me and my sleep style? I don’t approve of the tuna fish sandwich you’re eating, so we’re even.