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threw the remaining chocolate at them
as they hustled out of my office laughing.
    How
much drama can there be in one day? I looked at the clock
on my computer. Two o’clock. I groaned loudly as I slid down my chair and
contemplated hiding under my desk for the rest of the day.
    *
* * * * *
    Eight
days later, I found Charlie sitting behind my desk… in my chair. He
was slowly tapping an ivory linen envelope against his left hand. He didn’t
stand or offer me my chair. He didn’t even smile. He just handed me the
envelope.
    I
eased into the chair across from my desk and looked at the envelope. It was
already open. I knew what it was. In my heart of hearts, I knew. From the
moment Charlie had walked into my office with an answer to my prayer, I knew
this letter was coming.
    “Take
a deep breath,” Charlie encouraged softly as he stood.
    I
did. I took two… and slowly turned the envelope over. It was from the John
Heinz Foundation. Tears pooled in my eyes before I removed the letter from the
envelope. As much as I tried, I couldn’t even read the writing. Tears splotched
the linen stationary as I peered down at the letter through watery eyes.
    Charlie
gently squeezed my shoulder. “Looks like you’re going to DC, kiddo.”
    I
couldn’t help it. I knew I should be happy. I knew it was an honor to be one of
the few people chosen for a personal interview, but I felt so conflicted. All I
could do was cry.
    *
* * * * *
    The
first leg of my flight literally flew by. The Chatty Cathy sitting in the seat
next to me saw to that when she ignored the iPod I came armed with, evidently
not realizing I was wearing it so I could avoid talking to people like her. A
lot of good that did me.
    The
second leg of my flight was a bit more… eventful . I was seated next to a
well-dressed business man with brown hair and warm brown eyes. He appeared to
be Italian and about fifteen years older than me. He, too, managed to work up a
conversation by asking whether I was traveling to DC for business or pleasure.
    Having
lived in DC for some time, he enlightened me about the lesser known benefits of
living in Northern Virginia. We talked about vineyards, apple orchards, and
Great Falls Park… all things a girl from Montana would find infinitely more appealing
than the monuments. Then he bled on me.
    “Oh,
God! Please take this!” I shoved my pashmina at him as I twisted frantically in
my seat in search of a flight attendant. I was hoping it would stem the flow of
blood that was pouring from his nose before anymore got on my clothes. It was
the only thing within reach. The fasten seatbelt sign was on, and the flight
attendant was nowhere to be seen. Big surprise there.
    The
nose bleeder insisted he make it up to me. “Let me buy you dinner while you’re
in DC. It’s the least I can do. Please, let me make this up to you.” He looked
mortified.
    I
negotiated him down to lunch, but I eyed him skeptically as I handed him my
business card. I wondered if he hadn’t somehow managed to make his nose bleed
on purpose.
    I
made it through Reagan National Airport relatively unscathed. I was a little
surprised that no one inquired about the ridiculous amount of blood on my
clothing. Possibly, walking around in blood soaked clothes was a common
occurrence in DC. Not that this would warrant a strike against DC. It wasn’t
all that uncommon in Montana either, especially during hunting season.
    I
had never flagged down a cab before, so I wasn’t quite sure how it was done.
Still, I was determined not to appear to be a small town girl in a big bad
city, so I steeled myself as I exited the airport. With a completely unfounded
air of confidence, I strode to the curb and attempted to hail a cab that was
parked near the end of a very long line of cabs. I threw my left hand up and
everything. A fellow traveler quickly set me straight. Evidently, there was a
line.
    The
cab ride proved even more interesting than my flight, although, I think it
unnerved my cab