I put my name on the list. As the exam approached, I grew more nervous. Night after night, I studied department manuals, reviewed policies and questioned officers who had already survived the oral board.

By the time I reached the oral board interview, I had already failed it at least six times in my head.

As I drove to the Westing Hotel, where the interviews were being held, I found the parking lot while scanning all around, praying no one I knew heard the loud muffler on my car.

I walked into the hotel with purpose — confident, focused, ready. I asked a sergeant standing in the aisle twiddling his thumbs, “Where are the police oral boards being held?”

“Just take those escalators to the sixth floor,” he said, pointing. “When you get to the top, you’ll see a lot of officers. That’s the place. You can’t miss it.”

Sounds simple enough. Can’t miss it.

Except the escalators only went to the fifth floor.

So I looked for the sixth-floor button. Maybe I overlooked it. No, it wasn’t there. Impossible.

A test. That’s what oral boards are all about.

I checked my notice again. Yes, it was today. But where was it?

I stopped another officer — not nearly as friendly as thumb‑twiddler downstairs.

“Excuse me, sir—”

“You’re looking for the 20th floor,” he said confidently.

“The 20th floor? No, I’m looking for the sixth floor. The police oral boards are on the sixth floor, see?” I held up my crinkled notice.

He hurriedly escorted me to the elevator anyway, and gestured for me to get on first. The door jammed. He pushed and pushed, then stepped out and shoved it closed from the outside.

The elevator carried me away alone — leaving behind the only person who might have helped me.

I glanced at my watch. Good. At least I still had 15 minutes.

I whistled.

I hummed.

Deep breath.

20th floor. The elevator opened. I stepped out and looked for my police buddies.

Where are they?

Instead, several men in suits rushed toward me.

With a smile, I said proudly, “I’m here for my oral board.”

“You’re on the wrong floor,” one said, steering me back toward the elevator.       

“But he told me it was the 20th floor!” Why was I arguing? He was probably on the oral board too.

“Take this elevator to the 40th floor,” he said. “Then take another elevator to your floor.”

OK… But what elevator? What floor?

Don’t ask. Just go.

Why take the elevator to the 40th floor to get to the sixth floor? It had to be a test.

I’ll outsmart them. I’ll go back to the fifth floor and walk up to the sixth.

Yeah. That’s what I’ll do.

Bing! The elevator opened.

The first floor! Again!

At that point, I grabbed a poor man talking on his phone and demanded he tell me how to get to room 6621 … 6623 … whatever!

“Take the elevator to the 66th floor,” he said.

The 66th floor? Not the sixth … Not the 20th … The 66th?

This oral board is tricky.

66th floor, here I come.

I hummed.

I whistled.

Why was the elevator stopping on the 40th floor? Tears welled up. I was sure I had failed. The oral board had won.

I was ready to go home when a pleasant woman beside me asked, “Are you going to the 66th floor?”

“Yes. Yes. Yes, I am.”

“Is your oral board at 10:15 a.m.?”

“Yes,” I said, without checking my watch.

She looked at hers. “Oh.”

I’ve failed. She’s a spy. It’s 10:14. I have one minute.

How could I explain wandering around the hotel for 30 minutes without sounding incompetent?

The elevator opened on the 66th floor. I rushed out.

Oh, no! My shirt pockets weren’t buttoned. I hoped she didn’t notice. I hoped no one noticed.

Finally, I saw other officers.

“Pick a number and wait outside,” a woman instructed.

I felt like I was floating outside my own body. Everyone looked nervous, but not nearly as nervous as I felt.

“Jill Holloway? Follow me.”

Oh, no.

They’re here. They’re taking me away. My fate is in their hands.

Please don’t take me to those elevators again.

He did. He gestured for me to get on first.

No. No! The floor will open up.

But it didn’t. He led me down a long corridor lined with doors, each guarded by an officer with glazed‑over eyes. Pod people.

He squeezed into a room, barely opening the door. What was he hiding? My pod?

He reappeared. “You can come in now.”

“Thank you, sir.”

I walked in and saw the interrogation chair. Was I supposed to sit in that? Was it safe?

This was worse than I thought. They planned to replace me with a pod.   

“Officer Holloway, tell us about yourself.”

No! I won’t. You can’t make me.

Wait… Who’s talking? Why am I telling them about myself?

Ah, the truth serum. It must be in the ventilation system.

Well, I’m doomed now. Might as well answer the rest.

Suddenly I became angry. Why should I answer anything? Look at them — just staring.

“Officer Holloway, would you summarize what you just said?”

Summarize it? Didn’t they hear me stammer through it the first time?

“Officer Holloway, are you sure you wouldn’t use another method?”

What was wrong with these people? I was telling the truth. They gave me the truth serum, remember?

“No, sir,” I said. “I wouldn’t change a thing.”

“That concludes your interview, Officer Holloway.”

That concludes my interview?

Can I have my body back now?

And maybe directions to the lobby.

A few weeks later, the results were posted. I walked up to the list convinced I had failed. I read it once … then again. There it was. My name.

Apparently, the oral board hadn’t been trying to trick me after all.

I’d been doing that quite well on my own.