I. I got the call a little before 5 p.m. on a Friday. My wife, Sima, and I were sitting on the couch with our kids, probably watching Curious George. The White House vetting process had gone on for months. Yet, despite the Zooms and document requests and endless online forms, I had a strange certainty that I ultimately would not be selected. “You’ve said … a lot of stuff,” observed the twentysomething staffer who got my file. Indeed, until the precise moment the words came out of the phone—“