Election night was not a single moment, but a series of cascading certainties. It started with the exit polls, a torrent of data that painted a picture not of a political contest, but of a landslide. By 9 PM, the networks, one after another, called the race. The victory party at the Harrison campaign headquarters erupted, a deafening wave of cheers, applause, and the popping of champagne corks.
I watched it all from a glass-walled office overlooking the ballroom floor. Below me, a sea of celebrating staff, volunteers, and supporters swayed to the victory music. Confetti cannons blasted streams of blue and silver into the air, glittering under the television lights. Julian was down there somewhere, swallowed by the jubilant crowd, shaking hands and accepting congratulations. He had earned
