Now I found myself staring at my reflection in a bathroom mirror at three o’clock in the morning. “This is crazy,” I said aloud. “What am I doing? I know who she is. And even if…”

Even if? Even if?

“Stop it!” Whoa. The sound of my voice startled me. Yelling at my reflection was something I had never done before, and it was so outlandish I couldn’t help smiling. This definitely was an interesting and unexpected turn in my life, and surprisingly, I sort of liked the feeling. “You talkin’ to me?” I De Niroed, pointing to myself. “This is bullshit and you know it. Calm down. Be cool, man.” And then I winked.

I had hung a gold-framed sampler crocheted by my sister on the wall opposite my bed. It supposedly was an old Chinese curse: “May you live in interesting times.” It was the last thing I saw before I closed my eyes.

Jenny was still there, she’d been waiting in my mind. Either I trusted her or I didn’t. There was no middle ground. The military was big on trust. They drilled it into us day after day, in the mud and in the sunshine. It was all-or-nothing, and yeah, your life might depend on that decision. And once trust was gone, it was almost impossible to restore.

To succeed, a dictator has to turn people against one another. He has to destroy trust. I made a decision that night: I was going to trust Jenny until the day, the moment, she gave me a reason not to. But after that, admittedly I found myself listening more closely to her words and weighing the meaning. And I was more careful when I responded.

If the next few weeks were a test, she passed. She was becoming more outspoken in her anger or perhaps frustration. When she began referring derisively to the Wrightman administration as “the regime,” I appealed to Howie to invite her to a meeting. “It’s time,” I insisted. “I’ll vouch for her.”

“It’s up to Martha,” he told me.

“I thought there were no leaders?”

“There aren’t, but some non-leaders are more equal than others.”

This was arguably the most disorganized organization with which I had ever been involved. In the following weeks there was one more meeting, this one held in the rear of a hardware store. At least they told me where it was being held, which I considered progress. I admit it, the whole thing seemed like a colossal waste of time to me. When I complained to Howie, he quoted Lao Tzu: “The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”

“Yeah, well, that’s probably going to be a problem for me,” I responded.

Howie pointed out my hypocrisy. “Love it. Situational handicap.”

Jenny was right, though: the administration had evolved into a regime. It had continued to consolidate its control over the media, reducing if not completely eliminating opposition voices. Some minor opposition was necessary to maintain the illusion of a free press. In addition, the existence of media outlets like the Pro provided a convenient target for Wrightman’s supporters to speak out against: Either you supported the president or you supported the enemy. Fortunately, the Pro’s location on the sixth floor of a downtown building provided substantial security. Mobs and elevators are not a good mix.