 We were driving to a restaurant in New Hampshire at 6 p.m. on Saturday night. I was driving the car. It was you, our daughter, our lovely daughter, Julia. No, our son, Paul. Sorry. And his fiancée, Zoe. And you were on your phone. And you just said the following sentence. They've shot the president. What does Saturday mean to you? And what does Monday mean to you when we saw him walk in?