I just stared at him, hoping he understood the danger. If there was any truth at all to this, the NSA would take every necessary step to protect the administration. “You got it, Brain? I’m serious. This information could be dangerous.” I hesitated to say out loud what I was thinking: This is Wrightman’s America. No one knows how far they might go to protect themselves.

His smile was gone. He nodded tentatively.

“And don’t you give that number to anybody except the club. If that number rings, I’ll know it’s one of you.”

Brain tilted his head and asked, “What are you going to do with this, Mr. Stone?”

“Rollie. From now on, I’m Rollie.”

“Rollie.” He smiled broadly, then repeated more firmly, “Rollie.”

“I don’t know yet. I’ll need to check it out first, you know, just to make sure it’s accurate. Then I’ll have to make some decisions. But I promise you, if this is what you guys say it is…”—tap, tap on Chair’s pop-up screen—“I’ll protect you. And if anybody ever gets credit for it, I’ll make sure you guys get all of it.”

“Do you think we were right about it helping us get into college?”

I wet my unexpectedly dry lips. “Maybe. But for now you can’t use it.” I chuckled. “Somehow I don’t think you’re going to have any trouble getting into a good school. You and me, we’re diversity on wheels.” I was about to suggest I go with him to Union Station, but it occurred to me that he would be better off not being seen with me. Just in case. “You gonna be okay getting home?”

He reached into a pocket and held up a train ticket. “Shit, yeah,” he said.

“Do me a favor. Call that number when you get home so I know you’re safe. And one more thing: I want you to give Cher your contact information.”

“Really?” His face lit up brighter than the national Christmas tree.

“Cher, record and file this, please.” Brain gave Cher his phone numbers, his email, and his social media contact information. I paid the check and one more time told him how important it was that he not tell anyone about the club’s discovery. I didn’t want to freak him out, but I also did not want to pretend there was no danger. “All right, time to go to work. You’re gonna be careful, right?”

“I will. But can I ask you one favor?”

“Sure.”

“Can we take a selfie?” After he promised not to show it to anyone but the club, we bumped chairs like “walkies” might fist-bump. Then I went to work, wondering if a high school hacking club had handed me the evidence I needed to take down the Wrightman administration.

I have a terrible memory. (Did I tell you that already?) I can remember general details about the meaningful events of my life. But it is rare that I can remember every moment, every word, everything I was thinking and feeling during an event. This is one of those exceptions. Even today, when I close my eyes and think about it, it becomes a physical reality and I can reproduce my feelings.