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car.
    In three minutes we were out of Kirland and onto the toll road to Chicago. I took out my cell phone and called my mom, who had gone to Mrs. Holupki’s house for an early lunch. I couldn’t think of a clever or subtle way to introduce the subject, so I just said, “I’m going to Paris!”
    “Paris is in school, dear.” I swear I heard my mom tsk-tsk at me. “Please don’t disturb her.”
    I guess I hadn’t been entirely clear. “Not Mary’s Paris. Paris Paris.”
    “Paris, France? ”
    “Of course Paris, France.” I gave her the two-minute version of events. I must say she took it pretty calmly. My parents are very steady people.
    “You will be careful,” she finally said.
    “Of course, Mom.”
    “Then . . . have a wonderful time.” She giggled. “Paris?”
    “Paris, Mom.”
    “But you don’t have a passport,” she observed.
    At that moment the driver pulled up in front of the Federal Building on Dearborn Street. “Eighteenth floor,” he said. “They’re waiting for you.”
    “I will in a few minutes,” I said. “Anyway, I’ll be fine. And I’ll be back in a couple of days. Tell Daddy I love him. Bye!”
    The driver was right: I got off the elevator, found the passport office—and the instant I walked in the door, a nice young woman greeted me by name. Then a nice young man took my picture with a special digital camera that printed out two identical photos for the application. The nice young woman handed me forms, filled out except for my signature. It was becoming quite clear that there are real advantages to being in the movie business. That made me think, If I do a really great job and find this dress and save this movie, maybe I can get an actual permanent movie business job. One where you fly First Class, get driven around in Lincoln Town Cars, and drink sparkling water while the nice people at the passport office set a new land speed record processing your paperwork. A job in Hollywood. Or Paris. Anywhere but Kirland, Indiana.
    Whether my goal of leaving Indiana behind and getting a First Class-flying Hollywood job was realistic or not, it motivated me to pull out my “A Dangerous Dress” paper. While I waited, I read the whole thing. Including all those footnotes. Because Elliot Schiffter had not been very specific on the phone, and who knew what that director might ask me? I wanted to make a good impression. No—a perfect impression.
    A First Class impression.
    I never gave much thought to how long it takes to get a passport—or any thought, for that matter. But if you had asked, Is it possible to get a passport in under three hours? I would have said no. A week, maybe. Don’t ask me how they did it. But it is possible: two hours and forty-two minutes. I have the passport to prove it.
    We got to O’Hare Airport at about five ten. My flight was scheduled for six-oh-five. As you probably know, that is not necessarily a safe margin if you want to be sure you make your flight nowadays. Especially an international flight. Except that the advantages of being in the movie business do not end at the passport office. You also get to have somebody meet your car at the airport, check your suitcase at the curb, escort you directly to security, and put you into the short, fast line for the X-ray machine and the metal detector. I had always wondered who those people are who get to go in that short fast line. Now I know.
    I did hesitate for a minute when they were checking in my mom’s suitcase. Remember, my Grandma’s dress was in that bag. I was really nervous about being separated from it, even for the length of the flight. It was from 1928, which by definition made it irreplaceable. And it was my Grandma’s. I did not want to take the slightest chance of Grandma’s dress being lost. Let’s face it: Airlines have been known to lose things on occasion. In fact, I was so anxious I actually started to tell the skycap the whole story about the dress.
    “Do you want to buy extra