It was a big deal. This wasn’t the first time it had happened. It actually was a pretty common problem in my community. We talked about it at rehab. One friend had been forced to spend a cold night shivering outside when his spot had been blocked. Another time he had gotten so angry when people without need had taken the handicapped spots at a restaurant that he had parked his van lengthwise behind them, blocking them in. About an hour later, the manager had asked him to move his van so the other people could get out. He would be delighted to do so, he said, as soon as he was finished with his dinner. When the other drivers complained, he suggested they call the police, who might wonder why they had parked illegally in those handicapped spots.

I had options. I could ride Mighty Chair the seven blocks to the office or call a Lyft van, but you know what, I didn’t want to. This thoughtlessness, this sense of entitlement, made me furious. Wrightman’s speech had put me in a rotten mood and this only added to it. “Cher,” said the devil inside me, “open the panel door, please.”

The door slid open. “Cher, extend the ramp.” In response the ridged metal ramp eased out of Van, a sharp corner digging into the sports car’s door. “Cher, lower the ramp, please.” The ramp descended, gouging a perfectly vertical slice in the sports car’s metallic paint job. After the ramp settled on the pavement, I instructed, “Cher, raise the ramp.” The ramp retraced the cut into the door with a deeper growl than I’d expected, but still satisfying. It then retreated back into Van, disappearing innocently as the panel door slid closed behind it.

I turned on Mighty Chair’s blinking night-lights, which were powered by stored electricity generated by the wheels, and took off for the office, whistling a ragged version of “Satisfaction.”

It took me about twenty minutes to get there. During the trip I was surprised to see several seemingly handmade signs supporting Wrightman’s request already posted in windows. Three themes appeared repeatedly: 1. It’s U.S. or the terrorists. 2. Tell Congress now or it will be never. 3. I [heart] America and I [poop] on terrorism. The fact that these three slogans had popped up almost immediately in several different places made it obvious the administration was rolling out a preplanned PR campaign.

On my way there, I made a point of stopping by Jerry Stern’s night doorway. He was lying on a cardboard slab made from boxes, covered by a dirty blanket. He was asleep and I didn’t wake him, but I put ten bucks in his cup and slid it under the corner of his blanket. Maybe it would be there when he woke up.

There was a growing pile of research neatly piled on my desk when I got to the office. Some of the information I already knew; some of it was a surprise. Franklin Roosevelt was the last president to ask Congress for an official declaration of war, his “Day of Infamy” speech. Since then, the country had been involved in the “police action” in Korea (I wondered who came up with that label) and “conflicts” or “extended military engagements” or “advisory or training roles” in Vietnam, the Persian Gulf, Afghanistan, and Iraq, in addition to Reagan’s 1983 “foray” or “incursion” against Cuban Communists on the island of Grenada. We had also fought the undeclared cold war against communism and the drug wars in Central and South America—but no president since Roosevelt, responding to the attack on Pearl Harbor, had requested a formal war declaration.