I wanted to hear more. I didn’t. God, I did not.
But the woman on my phone said, “Megan? Are you still with me?”
“Yes,” I said.
My voice came out flat. Good. Flat was useful.
The woman on the line was Dana Hargrove from CISA. I had met her twice in person, once in a windowless conference room in D.C. where the coffee tasted like pennies, and once over continue reading …
