They were on a first-name-only basis, as people who work in the same office building often are, and she was glad to see him that hot summer evening when he gathered up his papers and magazines and offered her the last seat on the crowded train to New York. And she said, "How are you, Harry?" and he said, "How are you?" too, and by the time the conductor had called out Bridgeport, Southport, Westport, they had run out of words. By Greenwich he was flipping through a copy of Newsweek and she glanced over and saw a photograph of pregnant women with placards proclaiming "NIXON'S THE ONE." She had recently traded her black armbands for a polite job in publishing, but she couldn't let it pass. A lot of time had gone by since that slogan was written, she said, and cynically wondered aloud how the fool who wrote it back then must be feeling now. "Embarrassed," answered her seat-mate, a reddish tint beginning to climb up his neck. And before she could feel the blood rush to her own cheeks, she realized that Harry's last name was Treleaven, the man who had spent 1968 selling the president.