“Do we feel confident we know why the first take had it as a helicopter and the president in it?” Adam asked.

“We all know these training missions are routine,” Martina said. As they all had, she long ago mastered the art of not answering when replying.

“They’re not training exercises,” said Martina’s deputy, who had been the Pentagon correspondent once. “This is a combat patrol. After the Pentagon and World Trade Center, it was continuous; now it’s random and abridged.”

“Readers don’t know about the first takes,” Martina said, getting back to Adam’s question without, still, answering it.

“It’s curious,” Adam said, looking preoccupied.

“What did Donovan say to you?” Martina asked Adam. That was a good question, maybe the first one of the meeting. Stanley leaned forward to hear.

“Donovan did not call me,” Adam said. That sounded off to Stanley, even though Joan had told him the same thing over the phone. He had believed her then. He was doubting now. “Let’s do a follow—Photo can get something on the clean-up,” Adam was saying. “Metro—have someone talk to Watergate residents. See if we get any calls on far afield debris. Business—percentage of accidents with the F-16 compared to other warplanes, Lockheed’s response. If you can get the pilot’s name and anything on his record, I’ll consider it for the front.” The segue, effortless, to the tributaries of worn streams—Stanley never failed to be disappointed to watch Adam steer there.

In the Walter Reed emergency room, doctors manipulated the knob of Mary’s femur into her hip. Toes went back to the front, and heels went back to the back. Nerves were unhurt.

Her blood vessels were supple things. Veins and arteries had twirled around without breaking. She had, the chief of orthopedic trauma told her, a musculoskeletal system they wanted to study.