Natalie Savage stepped onto the asphalt driveway ringing the North Lawn, looked up, and felt her breath catch. She was hit with the sense that she was on a Tilt-A-Whirl, unsure which side was up. How many years had she imagined this moment? Her first time walking up the curving path to the White House’s James S. Brady Press Briefing Room, her first time passing the tents where the network news reporters go live from the White House, her first time looping by the marine at the West Wing entrance, mere yards from the Oval Office.

You’ve made it. She smiled to herself, wrapped in an almost giddy delight. You’re here.

What are you doing? her self shot back in a tone Barbara Walters might have used to greet a bright-eyed intern. There’s no time to be awestruck. Get going.

With little warning, the White House had moved up the briefing by an hour and she was about to be tardy her first day on the job. Hurrying up the driveway, she said a silent prayer that she wouldn’t be captured barging into the White House briefing late, excuse-me’ing into her seat, on every cable channel in America.

She reached the white door to the briefing room, pulled on the brass handle, and—

Inside reporters were moving at double speed: barking into cell phones, madly texting or tweeting, bouncing in and out of their chairs.

Thank god, it hadn’t started.

Flooded with relief, Natalie pushed into the scramble of bodies and felt the intensity of a breaking news event in the air: a pupil-dilating flush of oxygen, the heart-pounding thrill of being at the center of an all-eyes-on-this story. She made her way to the American Television Network’s (ATN) seat in the third row and relaxed enough to look around. At the back of the room was a warren of cubicles, each assigned to a network. A row of cameras stood in front of the cubicles like leggy sentries, and in front of those were the seats for the correspondents. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.

It smelled of mold and sweat.

Why does success always smell like a men’s locker room? she wondered.

Objectively, it was a crap hole. Despite the administration’s claims to have no money for infrastructure projects, Natalie suspected that the shabbiness of the tiny press room was by choice, not necessity, like an aging duchess who uses chipped Limoges not because she can’t afford better but because she likes it and relishes the discomfort of her judgmental guests.

She heard the crackle of static and a young man’s voice came through an overhead speaker. “Sorry for the change folks. The White House briefing will now be delayed by fifteen minutes.”