BamBam Lystra is accused of jailing critics, harassing business leaders who deny him kickbacks and there are even reports he’s killing his own people. Why is the US extending him a White House welcome and does the president plan to address these human rights abuses?

As she glanced over the paper, she felt her stomach begin to tie itself into a bowknot. Her questions were, in the parlance of her four-year-old niece, booooring.

The sound of Matt’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Did you truly print out your questions? I’m afraid that puts you squarely in the nerd clique. Hot Nerd, but still.”

Natalie stifled a groan. Over the room’s loudspeaker, a man’s voice announced, “The White House briefing will begin in two minutes.”

The words sent a flash of adrenaline rocketing through Natalie. In an instant, Matt, nerves, second-guessing were all gone. Pure white-hot excitement shimmered through her.

In front of her, the front row reporters stood up and turned, rears to the podium, facing the cameras in the back of the room for their live shots. From her seat, Natalie could hear their half of their conversation with their producers in New York: “You’re going small-box, big-box, right?” “So how many of us are in the show of force off the top?” “No, it’s not Ferragamo. Made for me by a family outside of Florence. It’s a bitch to find pocket squares with hand-stitched edges these days. Dying art.”

Adrenaline pulsing, she pushed her own earpiece deep into her ear and turned up the volume on the box at her waist. There was no sound. She jiggled the volume again. Still nothing.

“Hey, guys. It’s Natalie,” she said. “I’m here and can be live anytime.” She held her breath, waiting. “Anyone? Can anyone hear me?” Gaping, eternal quiet.

She turned around to face the ATN camera in the back and gave what’s-up eyes to her camerawoman, who shrugged. Apparently no one from ATN was talking to her either.

If she’d been outdoors doing a normal live shot—say at the scene of a murder or a dog mauling or a celebrity balcony suicide attempt—Natalie would have stood up and, after a few moments of silence, started waving her arms to get the control room’s attention, first subtly, then moving gradually into c’mon-down-you’re-the-next-contestant-on-The-Price-Is-Right! territory. But the White House was no place for Showcase Showdown moves, so instead she called the Washington, DC, news desk.

“ATN,” a sleepy desk assistant answered.

“Hey, it’s Natalie. Does New York know I’m at the White House, wired up and ready to go live?”