My Father’s Midnight Call Saved Us—But I Wish I’d Never Looked Out the Window

The first thing I noticed was the way my father said my name. Not “Max.” Not “son.” Just “Fitzpatrick”—the surname deployed like a classification code, stripped of warmth, stripped of everything except the particular urgency of a man who has spent thirty years with the CIA and understands that certain phone calls are not conversations but operations,continue reading …