An old forgetful LBJ is speaking in a narrow hallway filled with lights and reporters. On a table nearby is a plastic water pitcher and several plastic glasses. I pour myself some water. LBJ looks at me and his speech drifts onto the subject of baseball. I know he should be addressing the reporters, not me. He becomes lost in thought. I offer him my water. He thanks me, says no, and apologizes for being old. Just then, a friend of mine, who turns out to be one of the reporters, tells me that the two of us have to take a bus to another story. After a very short bus ride, we get off at an old rundown lot. My father is there, standing next to a wooden framework of some kind. I have no idea what it's for, and he's too discouraged to tell me. It's quite a bit taller than we are. "Maybe it's for a new swing set," I think.