The White House waiting room was more crowded than usual that morning. I had been summoned for what I believed was a standard budget review. The air was thick with whispers and the sound of the December wind rattling the windows. I tried to focus on my notes, but the murmurings about the holiday decorations were impossible to ignore. “Can you believe the cost?” a voice hissed from behind a newspaper. I looked up, curiosity piqued.
A senior staffer approached me with a document. Her smile was polite but strained, a hint of anxiety in her eyes. “This just came in,” she said, handing me the paper. I took it, noting the date printed at the top: December 1st. My eyes scanned the invoice, the numbers staggering.
“Is this right?” I found myself asking aloud, not entirely expecting an answer. The staffer shrugged, her eyes darting away. “That’s what we’re here to discuss,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.
The meeting room was filled with familiar faces, all wearing expressions of feigned indifference. As the discussion began, I noticed the deliberate vagueness in the responses. Questions about the budget were met with rehearsed explanations, leaving a gnawing feeling of unease in the pit of my stomach.
“We need to address this,” someone finally said, breaking the façade of the routine. The room fell silent, and I felt the weight of the document in my hands. What was really going on here?
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