The first man Vera approached was one of those white guys with no expression. She gave her name and the paper’s name. She said both slowly. Then, “Sir, do you work for Media Exploitation Component Services?”

“This some kind of joke? Media Exploitation?”

“No, sir, not a joke. It’s a part of the federal government headquartered in this building.”

“I’ve never seen it on the directory. I’d remember that.”

He told her he’d just left a meeting at the Northern Virginia Technology Council in Suite 150. He looked too shaggy for that, she thought. Almost a longhair, but he did have a suit on. “I come here every month,” he explained. “And I always forget which floor it’s on, so I look. Come on. I’ll show you.”

They stood in front of the tenant directory in the lobby, checking entries under M. “See,” he said. MECS wasn’t there.

He turned out to be the friendliest. Many veered sharp, not even letting her near enough to introduce herself. One muttered, “Not interested.” Another announced, “I don’t have anything to do with the media.” Disdain at her effrontery was common. “This is a place of business,” she got told more than once. A trench-coated woman struggling with purse, luggage, and briefcase said she would notify the security guard if Vera stepped any closer.

So she tried to choose based on dress. A man in T-shirt, sweater, and backpack—less corporate—might be more relaxed. “I don’t speak to the press,” he said. Still hopeful about his spiky haircut, she pushed a little with him. “I understand that, sir, but I could really use your help.” He walked—ran—into the parking garage, banged his head getting into a Prius.

She felt as if she were a little better than a panhandler, but not much. She knew black was a disadvantage, especially when it came to the women, who solidified into freezer-cold when she came their way. She had been careful to wear the middle-class uniform—small earrings, hair straightened in a bob, nails squared, short, and palest pink, heels so low they were almost flats. But for a certain type, it didn’t matter.

Finally, she saw a brother coming from the glass double doors. It was getting to be eight, and most of the building had emptied. It was dark. Her feelings had been bruised, and her notebook was empty. It wasn’t like her to be a pest. Yet she’d been excited, certain this address would be a breakthrough.

“Hey,” she said to him instead of “sir,” thinking being too formal had been her mistake.

“Excuse me?” he said.

“How are you?” she said, giving him her largest smile.

“How am I? Do I know you?” he asked.

“Well, no, but I’m Vera Hastings, and I work—”

He cut her off. “You’re the newspaper reporter that’s been down here.”

She brightened. “Why, yes, yes, I am.”