“Thank you, Ryan. I have just gotten off the phone with sources who shared with me some very personal, very private information about the First Lady that’s never before been public.” In her ears, her voice sounded strong, authoritative. “According to these sources, First Lady Anita Crusoe is recovering from addiction. She’s currently at a rehab facility in Phoenix, Arizona.” She paused to let that sink in. “We have photographs of the First Lady’s friend Anthony Cantrell entering that facility on more than one occasion.”

“Rolling photos,” a voice said in her ear.

“The place is called Huntington Recovery Center. It caters to wealthy and VIP clients who require extreme privacy. Earlier today I spoke with the manager who declined to comment, citing patient confidentiality. It is not clear how long the First Lady has been in residence there, nor do we know the nature of her addiction—alcoholism or something else. But we know from history that the stress of the White House has taken a toll on more than one First Lady. We should applaud Mrs. Crusoe for seeking the help that she needs, and hopefully she will be given time and space to recover privately. Ryan?”

Ryan thanked her in his best Enthusiastic tone. Did she note a touch of respect in his voice? The lights went off and Matt and Dasha exploded in applause.

“That was AMAZING!” Matt hollered.

“Goodbye, McBalls,” Dasha agreed.

Grinning, Natalie looked over to see the TV lights up and down Pebble Beach switch on as camera people from rival networks raced out of the briefing room to power up their positions.

“They’re all going to report our story.” Matt grinned. “And they’re going to attribute it to ATN. It’s fucking awesome.”

Soon reporters followed, racing out of the briefing room and toward their live locations. As they rushed by, one reporter after another waved at Natalie, yelling “great story” or giving her a big thumbs-up. Matt was right. This was awesome.

The ATN booth in the basement of the White House press briefing room was so cramped it could barely fit Natalie and her oversized makeup bag. But miraculously she, Dasha, and Matt had all jammed inside and were now staring at seven plasma TV screens that ran up the tiny wall of the closet-sized space. Every network was live with banners that read, “ATN reports: FLOTUS in Rehab” or “FLOTUS Fights Addiction, Says ATN.”

Natalie couldn’t hold back a smile. This must be what it feels like to land a triple axel. She’d done the stunt and stuck the landing, finally.