It was the season of genocide, and it lasted years.

Her dissertation, one hundred and twelve pages long, castigating the United States' decision to abstain from intervening in the 1956 Hungarian Revolution, attracted the attention of people in prominent places. Later she was named deputy assistant for Eastern European Affairs. Someone faceless said, "I read your dissertation. If you want to succeed here, there's no such thing as 'want'. Survival precedes morality."

That was when Nancy wore scuffed shoes and colorful suits, dark curly hair piled loosely on top of her head. That was when she dreamt of emaciated bodies. Mass graves. Scattered hands. She went to work in the morning bleary, faded. They walked by her, the ones with the power, they walked by and she let them go.

Thousands of miles away and the American public had more important things to worry about. That was the morning she asked her mother what she was worried about most. "Health care," and Nancy choked on the irony.

Memory: Want to do right? Don't count on me. She can't forget.

That was the morning the Secretary of State passed her. An opportunity. Deep breath and then, "How?"

Haunted.

He looked at her, disapproving. He moved to dismiss, then paused. "Our job isn't to save the world, Ms. McNally. Just to change it." He turned. At the doorframe he paused, said, without looking back, "It isn't detachment. It's survival. You'll learn to see the whole picture."

It was dark when she left, forgetting her coat on her chair. They said Somalia ruined Rwanda, and she hated that huge mass of the American public not opening their eyes. She hated Congress. She hated her boss.

Mostly she hated herself.

She attacked the grout in her shower. Tile smooth against her hands, she pressed against it for balance, throwing all her weight at the mildew in the cracks between fading yellow, turning white some ugly shade of brown. Lightheaded, the sound of the brush was rough on her ears. She thought of nothing but grout and mildew. The bristles turn a mild shade of brown, bending from the pressure, and Nancy declared war.

A hard thrust upward, and she went a bit too far. The brush flew out of her hand, banged against the far wall before it clattered the to bottom of the tub. Her knees gave way as she sank, her back sliding down the half-mildewed shower wall.

She dissolved. Head against knees, curled in the shower. Her fingers shook and her gasps echoed. She couldn't stop, couldn't control it. Lost.

Pinched her skin, hard, said, "Get a hold of yourself, Nancy. This is your job," and rubbed furiously at her eyes. She stripped, turned the water full force, and stood beneath the scalding spray. Inhaling deeply, by the time she twisted the knobs, she'd forgotten what it felt like to lose control.

Another day, tomorrow, she might not save the world, but she wouldn't let anyone forget it existed.