"Did you lose someone?"
Seth grips the strap of his backpack a little tighter, takes the proffered candle.
Did he? He takes a moment to think of names, of faces, something he's not let himself do since that night. (Tom Kirkman was only following his example when he emptied his stomach in the West Wing men's room.)
Molly was the MSNBC correspondent. She got engaged last month and never stopped talking about her upcoming honeymoon in Tahiti.
Kumar was with CNN. He bet against the Seattle Seahawks for the 2014 Superbowl and had to give everyone in the Corps five dollars. Seth spent his on a Seahawks bobble head off of eBay just to rub it in.
Nexstar's man was Li Qiang – he was saving up to pay his pregnant sister's upcoming medical expenses.
Anton was sending half of every paycheck to his wife and children in Guatemala.
There were others – countless others, in the Press Corps, in the Communications offices, the receptionists in the front lobby where all the dignitaries came through before being ushered back to the Oval, Secret Service agents and interns and custodians and –
It's a stupid question, he thinks. Of course I lost someone. Every person in this city lost someone, why should I be the exception?
But then he looks up, and sees the other man's eyes. No judgment. No suspicion. Only – and this surprises him most of all – encouragement.
The guy isn't wondering if Seth lost someone, he realizes. He's giving him an opening. A chance to dump every ounce of grief, of anger, and leave it all here at a sidewalk vigil, a vigil that's meant to do nothing but promote a false hope that anyone will be found alive in the pile of marble and ash.
The thought makes Seth pause, look at the impromptu shrine at which strangers have gathered. The photos and flowers clipped to the fence look eerie in the candlelight.
He swallows, nods, and holds out his candle for the woman with the sympathetic smile and the sad brown eyes to pass the flame.
"I lost everyone."