JOSH: NOVEMBER 6th, 2002, 12:15 AM

The only white light in CJ's office came from the CNN studio on the TV screen, where Marty Thomas was talking total crap again. He leaned in closer to the anchor, his hair slicked back in a weird-ass imitation of a fifties greaser. "Among those who said they were undecided, seventy-three percent said they made up their minds based on the debates," he said. "Fifty-nine percent of that population went for the President. That's how he won."

Unbelievable. This guy had practically staked his reputation on a Bartlet loss. I pointed at the television with the heel of my beer bottle. "You know what always amazes me?"

Christmas lights scattered festive patches of red across the printout in Toby's hand. He poked his head up from behind it. "Gravity?"

"The way these talking heads offer whitewashed, oversimplified explanations for why things happened the way they did, when that's exactly what they said could never happen." I set my beer down on the corner of C.J.'s desk, letting it clink against the two empties. "I mean, not six months ago this guy was making it sound like we'd be coming in behind the Libertarians and the Natural Law Party."

"Lots of people said we were going to lose," Toby mumbled, not looking at me. "Even C.J. said we were going to lose."

My eyebrows flew up, and I swiveled around to face C.J. "You said we were gonna lose?"

C.J. bent down and grabbed what looked like a blue lava lamp from a box in the corner. She tossed a glare at Toby and started unraveling the cord from its base. "All I said was that we took a huge hit on MS, and it was going to be hard to bounce back from that."

"You thought we were going to lose." I sat up straight, smirking. "The President's press secretary seriously thought he was going to--"

"Okay, Toby thought we were going to lose, too, and I don't hear you yelling at him." She pointed an accusing finger at the top of his head.

"Toby has a doom-and-gloom clause in his contract." I leaned back again, tilting my head to let the last remaining bit of tension stretch out of my shoulders. Reelection wasn't the triumph of the underdog we'd had four years ago, but it still felt good.

C.J. plugged in the lava lamp and plunked it down on the table. "Remind me to hire a better contract lawyer next time. Maybe Sam knows somebody."

I stared at the lamp. She flicked the switch, and its dark blue bulb lit up like a sign on a cheap diner. "What is this, Macarthur Park?"

"It's mood lighting. It's mellow. Something which you, my friend, have never been."

I eyed it cautiously. A lump of goo bubbled up from the base, reaching a tendril out toward the ceiling. "You actually own a neon blue lava lamp."

"Yes." C.J. placed a hand on one hip, her patented 'wanna make something of it' pose.

"And you keep it at the office?"

C.J. turned and stepped toward the desk. "It clashed with the orange love beads in my living room."

"It's time to move from the sublime to the truly bizarre," a male voice said from the television, the volume almost too low to make out his words. "It looks like we've finally got a result on a Congressional race in Orange County, California, a race that's been too close to call for several hours now. Against all odds--"

"Turn this up, will you?" Toby's voice was sharp. C.J. dove for the remote, and I leaned forward, grabbing onto one arm of the chair. A dead Democrat and a seven-term Republican thug, fighting it out in the California 47th. That would have been crazy enough, but the fact that the Dem actually had a chance made it sheer lunacy.

The picture switched from the studio to a crowded room full of people. A news Barbie with a perky smile stood holding a microphone, yelling to be heard over whoops and cheers. "Mark, I'm here at the Newport Beach Hyatt with Kay Wilde and a--" A noisemaker smacked against her cheek as a kid in a hat ran past, and she took a startled step back. "--what can only be described as an extremely enthusiastic crowd. Not five minutes ago, Mrs. Wilde stood on this very stage and announced that she'd received a phone call from Congressman Chuck Webb, conceding the election--"

"Oh, my God," C.J. said. My spine stiffened with excitement. Conceding. Webb.

The camera angle shifted slightly to focus on a little old lady. The wrinkles around her eyes were a mirror image of the ones on my own mother's face. "Mrs. Wilde, let me just first say that I'm so sorry for your loss," the reporter said, letting the smile slip away from her lips.

"Thank you," the widow answered, nodding. Her eyes were red with tears, but she was beaming like she'd just won the lottery.

"Mrs. Wilde, can you tell me what your husband would have said if he'd been here tonight?"

"I think he is here tonight," she said confidently. I'd underestimated this little old lady; whoever was running Wilde's campaign had trained her well. "Horton had a dream. And tonight the people of this district voted to make sure that dream didn't die with him."

"That's it," C.J. said, pointing at the television. "This is a dream. A dead Democrat didn't really just take the California 47th, right? We're hallucinating."

"It's either that, or the devil's gonna be hosting the National Hockey League finals," Toby said.

I sat up further. This was going to be fun. "I can't wait to see them explain this one," I said. "I bet they're gonna try to pin it on his death. Now there's a campaign strategy if I ever--"

A hiss from both C.J. and Toby cut me off, and the reporter continued. "Mrs. Wilde, we know you've all worked very hard on this campaign, but it's not quite over yet. Sometime within the next ninety days, there's going to have to be a--"

"A special election," the widow said with a nod.

"--a special runoff election between Congressman Webb and a candidate chosen by the Democratic Party."

"A candidate?" I snorted. "Call it like it is--the guy's gonna be a sacrificial lamb." I turned the beer bottle over in my hand and took a sip.

"Mrs. Wilde, can you confirm the rumor that the candidate will be current White House senior advisor Sam Seaborn?"

Shock hit me like a blow to the chest, and the liquid disappeared from my throat. My arm lowered onto C.J.'s desk, and the bottle landed against it with a clink.

"Who?" C.J. asked.

The widow's mouth opened, and then closed again. "Well, I don't know if I-- I suppose it's..." There was a long pause, and I grabbed hold of a breath. "Yes, Mr. Seaborn has agreed to run if Horton won the election."

The blood chilled in my veins. Toby leaned forward, holding up a finger. "Okay, there's some other White House senior advisor named Sam Seaborn, right?" he said.

I fixed my eyes on the television and waved a hand to cut him off. "Shh!"

"--currently holds the position of Deputy Communications Director and Counselor to President Bartlet, and was integral to his win in 1998 as well as his landslide victory tonight." The reporter cocked her head at the widow. "Mrs. Wilde, let me ask you this: Why Sam Seaborn?"

"Horton was a huge admirer of both the President and his staff," the widow explained, her eyes wide with carefully rehearsed awe. "We've talked to Mr. Seaborn, and he shares Horton's vision for the district. And he knows Orange County--he graduated valedictorian of Laguna Beach High School in 1981, and his mother still lives here. There's no one better." My teeth clenched. They couldn't have meant anybody but our Sam.

The reporter nodded, her expression appropriately solemn. "Thank you very much, Mrs. Wilde. I'm sure your husband would have been thrilled with the choice."

"Thank you," the widow answered.

The camera shifted again, zeroing in on the reporter. Her smile was back in place. "Of course, Seaborn's going to have a tough road ahead of him. For more than a century, the Democrats have considered the 47th to be unwinnable. But if we've learned anything at all tonight, it's that you should never say never. Julie?"

The phone on C.J.'s desk rang, and she picked it up and started talking. A picture of Sam flashed across the screen. "So, who is this Sam Seaborn?" the anchor asked in voiceover. It was a good question. Apparently, he was somebody who didn't bother informing his friends when he made life-changing decisions.

As if on cue, Sam appeared in C.J.'s doorway, his tie loosened and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. My mouth went dry. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye and took a drink of my beer.

Sam's credentials flashed across the screen in bold yellow type. "He has been an integral part of the President's inner circle since joining the Bartlet campaign after several years at a New York law firm, Gage Whitney Pace," the anchor continued in voiceover. "He's a graduate of Princeton University and Duke Law--"

C.J. hit a button on her phone and turned toward me. "Josh, Sam Donaldson from the ABC Nightly News program is on the phone. He'd like to know if the President is endorsing Sam."

"Toby, is the President endorsing Sam?" I asked, forcing my eyes over to the couch and keeping my voice level.

"Hmm?"

"Is the President endorsing Sam?" I repeated.

"I don't know, he's asleep," Toby said with a shrug. "But let's go ask him." C.J. hung up the phone and stood, and I pushed myself to my feet and stepped toward the door.

"All right," Sam said, closing the door to keep us inside. He turned around to face us, his eyes darting first over to me, and then from C.J. to Toby. Lines of tension spread across his forehead, and I glared at him. "Look, this is extremely easy to explain," he said, holding up a hand and walking back over to stand in front of C.J. We waited for it. His face went blank. "First of all...okay. How familiar are the three of you with Aristotle?"

"You *agreed* to *run*?" I yelled.

"I said it for the widow!" he said, his voice rising to a shout as he took a step toward me. "She wanted a name for election night and I said, 'use my name,' not thinking for a second it was ever going to be a practical option." He glanced down at one of C.J.'s fabric-covered lamps. "Can I ask, is your office now The House of the Rising Sun?"

"Yes," she said simply, one hand on her hip.

"You did it for the widow." Toby parroted Sam's words back at him, but his tone was incredulous.

Sam took another step forward. "Yes, and for a guy I met named Will Bailey who was running the campaign and worked his ass off. He never backed off and, by the way, navigated a dead liberal Democrat to a win against Chuck Webb."

His posture was defensive, but couldn't keep from sounding impressed. My stomach sagged. A guy named Will Bailey.

"Five hundred races tonight, that was pretty impressive," Sam mused. "Though it was an Aristotelian confluence of events that could only happen to me." He pushed out a breath. "I have to talk to the widow."

"I would actually talk to the President first." C.J. said.

Sam blinked. "Really?"

"He's going to get it first thing in the morning," she reminded him. "There's a seat in play. He's going to be asked about it and he can't say, you know: 'My God, I have no earthly idea what you're talking about.'"

"Okay." Sam's eyes fell to the floor, and he did that thing he does where he chews on the inside of his cheek. "Yeah, all right."

Sam opened the door and walked back out into the hallway. Toby stepped over to the door, peered out after him, and turned back around to face us. He burst out laughing.

A grin spread across C.J.'s face, and her snickering drowned out Toby's dry chuckles. "He's right. This could only happen to Sam."

Toby gestured over his shoulder with a thumb and spoke through laughter. "Did you see his-- the way he--"

"He can't do it," I said, narrowing my eyes at both of them.

"Of course he's not going to *do* it." Toby was still laughing. "I don't think Sam's great ambition is to get creamed by Congress's version of Mike Tyson."

When had he met some eager young Orange County campaign director? "Wait, didn't he go down there just a few weeks ago?"

"Where?" Toby asked.

"To Orange County. The day before the debate. Didn't he drive down there to tell them they were embarrassing the President before a close election, and they should let dead candidates lie?" I nodded slowly, remembering. Toby had told him to make a phone call, but Sam had wanted to do it in person. "And then what? A weeping widow and this guy Bailey impressed him so much that he agreed to take over the campaign?"

A fresh wave of laughter bubbled under C.J.'s voice. "Nobody but Sam. I'm telling you."

I flung my arms out in frustration. "I can't believe he didn't say anything to us about this!"

"He didn't expect Wilde to *win*," C.J. countered. "This was one of those one-in-a-million fluke things."

Toby shrugged. "He'll make a phone call. It's done."

"It's a little hard to back out after your picture's been plastered all over the networks," I argued. "Have you ever known Sam to go back on a promise? If he starts doing this, he's not going to be able to just stop."

"He's not going to start," Toby insisted.

My thoughts were whirling. He couldn't throw everything away to run for Congress as the party's patsy. That wasn't how it was supposed to go. "He has a job here!" I yelled. "He can't just run off to California because some guy dazzled him with a bunch of campaign promises." C.J. shot Toby a look, raising her eyebrows, and Toby smirked. I rubbed the back of my neck. "And there's an inaugural address to write in just...Toby--"

"He's not going to run," Toby said. I stared at him, and he threw up his arms. "What? He says he's going to talk to the woman. He's not going to run."

I sat down. I could just see Sam calling the widow, all ready to tell her he wouldn't do it, and then getting caught up in her tears and enthusiasm. Whatever C.J. and Toby were saying, this was exactly the sort of crazy thing Sam would do. I grabbed my beer from the corner of C.J.'s desk and drained it.

The sound of the TV entered my conscious mind again. The camera was trained on the reporter who'd interviewed the widow. "I don't think I'm going too far in calling this election a truly unprecedented event," a male anchor was saying in voiceover. "Is there a sense of that among the people at the Newport Beach Hyatt tonight? Is there a feeling of just having made history?"

"Absolutely, Mark," the reporter said. Behind her a small group of kids threw their arms around each other, as if to personify what she was saying. "I've seen a lot of election night parties, but the people here are more than just happy they won. They all know that they've managed to do something everybody said was impossible. There's a definite feeling in the air that if they can do this, they can do anything."

Like the night we'd swept Super Tuesday in the first campaign. They'd said we couldn't do it, until that night, when everybody'd found out what Josiah Bartlet could do. Sam had practically exploded with pride that night. He fed on that sort of thing. I swallowed hard.

"What can you tell us about the people who made it happen?" the anchor asked in voiceover.

"Well, Mark, the man behind the miracle is named William Bailey. He ran this campaign almost single-handedly, on a shoestring budget, with a tiny staff and a handful of volunteers." Scowling at the television, I reached across C.J.'s desk for her remote and clenched a fist around it. "He's the son of former Supreme NATO Commander Thomas Bailey and--"

I pressed the power button, and the picture clicked into blackness.

###

SAM: NOVEMBER 6th, 2002, 1:02 AM

The Communications bullpen was bright with a fluorescent glow, and Ginger was still sitting at her desk. She stared at me as I walked in. "One moment, please," she said into the receiver, and pressed a button on the phone. "Hey, Sam, are you here for Tim Russert?"

"No," I said automatically.

"How about for Connie Chung?"

"Definitely not." I stepped into my office and flicked on the light.

"I'm sorry, he can't take your call right now," Ginger said from the other room. "Of course, right away. Thank you." A button on her phone clicked, and I sat down at my desk. "I'm sorry, he's unavailable right now, can I take a message? Of course. Thank you."

My eyes dropped to my desk, weighed down by the sense of dread that had been hanging over me for almost an hour. Everybody was assuming I was in campaign mode, and of course I should be thrilled for the publicity. Of course. I rubbed the corner of my eye with a fist.

Ginger appeared in the doorway, her hand wrapped around an inch-thick stack of message slips. "Paula Zahn wants to know if you'd be willing to appear on American Morning tomorrow. That's the one on top. Some guy from the L.A. Times also wants to know if he can do a profile on you and your mom, but it sounds like that can probably wait."

I scrambled to my feet again. "They want to talk to my *mom*?"

"And Danny Concannon's coming to see you first thing tomorrow morning. I told him you were going to be busy, but he didn't listen." She plunked the stack of messages down in front of me.

"Thanks." I took a step back, staring at them as if they might explode.

"Hey, do you know what they're going to do with your office?"

"What?" I looked up at her.

"When you go out to California to campaign. Is it just going to sit here, empty, or--"

"I'm not going out to California to campaign," I said, my eyes narrowing. "My office is not going to be empty. And if it were going to be, it certainly wouldn't get turned over to you."

She held up a hand. "Just asking."

"You're still trying to get Kay Wilde on the phone?"

"Bonnie's doing that."

"How about you try on another line?"

"Right." She turned around and walked back out into the bullpen.

I lowered myself into my chair and picked up the first message slip from the stack. Paula Zahn @ American Morning, it read. I slapped it back against the desk, sending the entire stack scattering across the surface. Two more slips fluttered out from the middle: "Twofold congratulations" from Lisa--call her when you have a chance, and Call your mom.

I closed my eyes, resting my forehead against my palm, and pushed a sigh out through my nose. First the widow. Then Lisa, then Mom. The reporters would have to wait until tomorrow.

"So, how does it feel to get outed on television?"

"What?" I looked up at Donna.

She was standing in the doorway, one hand on the doorframe and the other clutching a Styrofoam plate covered with chocolate cake. "The widow--"

"Oh, the-- right," I stammered. "I probably could have come up with a better way to let the people I work with know they were about to experience colossal embarrassment at my hands." I clasped my hands together. "Though I have to admit it was efficient."

"You think they're embarrassed?" She stepped into my office, set the plate of cake down on my desk, and sat down in the chair opposite my desk.

"Not tonight." I grabbed the plate without looking at it. "No, tonight they're all in there having a good laugh at my expense. The embarrassment is reserved for tomorrow."

"How come?"

I skewered the cake with the plastic fork and raised a bite to my mouth. Sickly sweet frosting oozed onto my tongue, and I gulped it back. "Because as soon as Bonnie gets Kay Wilde on that phone, I'm going to have to tell her that she's been misled as to my level of enthusiasm about running for this seat. Not to mention my much-lauded honesty and integrity." I waved a hand across the message slips on my desk, scattering them further. "And that's when this turns into a public relations nightmare."

"I don't think she--"

"Which, of course, is just the sort of thing we want the press focused on after we win a landslide election." I poked the fork at the spongy mass. These things always looked so much better than they actually ended up tasting. "Why am I eating this?"

"You wanted cake."

I peered at it. "I did?"

"Yes." Donna leaned in toward me. "Have you talked to the President?"

I shrugged. "Yeah, I went up to the Residence. He was in there with the First Lady, and she wasn't wearing anything." I pointed at Donna with the fork. "Speaking of embarrassment."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Mrs. Bartlet wasn't wearing anything?"

"Not much."

"What did he say?"

"You mean, apart from 'quit staring at my wife?'" I shoved another bite of cake into my mouth. What a mess this was.

"Yeah."

"He said as long as I wasn't running, he was behind me one hundred percent."

Donna folded her arms. "And you told him you weren't running."

"He probably thinks I'm crazy." I leaned back against the chair. He'd mostly been concerned with rushing me back out of his bedroom, but by tomorrow he'd want to have a reasonable explanation for this. Which wouldn't be a problem if there were one. "He's probably right," I added.

"What would Aristotle say about this?"

I gave her a blank look. "Who?"

"Aristotle. You know, what you were saying earlier," she said, gesturing in the air with a hand. "An improbable probability--"

"An improbable possibility," I corrected.

"Whatever." She grabbed onto the edge of my desk and leaned toward me. "What would Aristotle do if *he'd* promised to run in the California 47th if the dead guy won?"

My mouth quirked at one corner. "I'm pretty sure California wasn't split into Congressional districts in 350 B.C."

Donna rolled her eyes. "Let's say it was."

"Aristotle didn't do things," I insisted, shaking my head. "He just...thought about them."

Her eyebrows straightened into a line. "Well, that would have made his decision a whole lot easier."

I examined the cake, but it looked even less appetizing than it had two minutes ago. I shoved the plate away from me, plowing a trail in the mound of message slips. "I just wish I didn't have to let the widow down," I said, meeting Donna's stare. "I mean, you haven't seen this woman. She's my mom's age, and she's got these big eyes that light up whenever you use words like 'hope' and 'vision' and 'integrity'."

"She sounds like somebody else we know," she said with a trace of a smile.

My lips pressed together. Toby had always said it with a scowl, and C.J. had usually said it with a smirk, but they'd all said it. Sam's our conscience. Sam's the one who still believes. That had been a long time ago. I turned my chair around to face the window, loosening my tie the rest of the way. The moon was a crescent slit in the sky, peeking in through the blinds.

"Okay, I'm about to say something crazy," Donna said from behind me.

I tilted my chair back, but didn't turn around. "Go right ahead. Why should you be any different from anyone else?"

"I think that when Bonnie gets the widow on the phone, you should tell her you'll be honored to run."

I swiveled back to face her. That certainly qualified as crazy. "Why would I--"

"Because you should do it." Her voice was level, and her gaze didn't waver.

I let my eyes fall shut. "Donna--"

"I think you should."

I pinched the bridge of my nose. We'd been over this. "I'd get slaughtered."

"You know, that's what they said about a certain unknown New England governor who decided to take on President Armstrong." Her tone was teasing, but there was something more serious behind it.

I opened my eyes. "That was different."

"How?"

"It was..." I let my voice trail off. A dozen responses shot through my mind, but none she couldn't refute. I drummed my fingertips on the arm of the chair. "It just was."

She placed an elbow on the edge of my desk. "Sam, you left a highly paid corporate law job to go work for a guy who was not only not supposed to beat Armstrong, he wasn't even supposed to win the primary. Nobody had even heard of Josiah Bartlet when you joined that campaign. Are you telling me that didn't require a leap of faith?"

I swallowed. Back then I hadn't yet realized that the dreams I'd left that job for would always lack a certain substance. I didn't have any leaps of faith left in me. "There's a difference between taking a leap of faith and jumping off a cliff. A Democrat hasn't won the California 47th in over a hundred years."

"You know, everybody keeps saying that as if it were true."

My forehead creased. "It's not?"

"Horton Wilde won. Tonight." She shrugged. "And you've got all these advantages he didn't have. I mean, for one thing, you're alive."

I frowned. She was coming far too close to making sense. I'd definitely been awake too long. "Okay, let's assume-- even if I-- I mean, I can't take three months off. Not starting in November. You might remember that there's this speech the President gives on January 20th, and last time I checked, it was pretty much my job to write it."

Donna shook her head. "Toby can do that! He doesn't need you."

I stared at her. "Okay, you know, if you're trying to boost my ego, there are definitely more effective ways of doing it."

"I just mean that there are people here who could cover for you. And it's the right thing to do." She cocked her head at me. "That sort of thing used to matter to you."

"Ouch!" I winced. "All right, whose side are you on, here?"

She grinned. "The winning side, of course."

"Do you know how long it's been since I've been back to Orange County?" I asked, gesturing at her with both hands. "I mean, for longer than it takes to say 'Hi, Mom, bye, Mom, sorry-can't-talk, Mom?' I can't pass myself off as a local."

"Sam." Her smile was gone.

"What?"

She stood and leaned across my desk, planting both palms flat against the mound of message slips. "I know what the polls say about the chances of a Democrat winning that seat. But you can *make* people listen to you. You do this-- this *amazing* thing with words, and so far, you've given them all to other people. I just think you have some of your own in there somewhere, too." She slid one hand toward me. "If there's anybody out there who can do this, it's you."

I searched her face, but there wasn't a hint of insincerity there. A warm feeling edged out the tension in my throat, and I swallowed. "Okay, that was a much more effective way of boosting my ego."

She stood back up. "So you'll think about it?"

A breath trickled out of my lungs. "Sure."

"Yeah? 'Cause if you tell that widow tonight that you're not doing it, you can't exactly change your mind later."

"I'll think about it."

"Good." She hesitated in the doorway. She gave me a triumphant smile, like she'd already won. "I think you're gonna do it," she said before disappearing down the hall.

I stared at the empty doorway. A dry laugh escaped from my mouth, and I shook my head. If I didn't watch out, she was going to go out to California and run the campaign for me.

I threw a quick glance out into the bullpen, but Bonnie wasn't back. Rolling my chair closer to the desk, I picked up the remote. A click of the power button, and the anchor from CBS returned to the television screen. "What are Seaborn's chances of actually winning this second round?" she asked the guy sitting next to her. I shook my head. Five hundred races across the country tonight, and they were still talking about me.

"Well, Julie, this race wouldn't be easy for any Democrat," he answered. "The California 47th is an unusually wealthy district, with a median household income of around $70,000 and a voting population that overwhelmingly swings Republican. But Seaborn has a number of things going for him. One, he's got strong ties to the Hispanic community. If he plays his cards right, he could be just the sort of candidate to fire up the people who don't usually bother going to the polls. Two, as a speechwriter, he already knows how to make people listen."

My mind drifted away from the fluorescent glow of my office to the bright sun of a beach in California. I'd driven up there to tell some upstart campaign manager to quit embarrassing us by running a dead guy, but that same upstart campaign manager had brought me back to the crazy idealism of running a guy everybody thought was a sure loser, and I'd returned to Washington with a promise under my belt.

I rolled my chair closer to the desk. I'd told myself I hadn't meant it, that I'd just said 'use my name' to gain back this guy's respect and to give an old lady a little hope for the last days of a hard race. But had I really just said 'I'll do it' without a hint of seriousness, or had there been something more behind it?

"Seaborn's got that certain something that every career politician needs," the guy on the television continued. On my face I could feel the first hint of a smile.

###

JOSH: NOVEMBER 6th, 2002, 1:20 AM

I sprinted into the hallway. The festive atmosphere in the White House was slowly mellowing, but as Donna had pointed out, a busload of women were about to liven things up a little.

"Josh."

It was a woman's voice. "Hang on," I said, raising a finger of protest as I turned toward the voice. "A couple people from the Women's Leadership Coalition just..." I let my voice trail off as I noticed the big grin, the one that always echoed my own. Women's Leadership Coalition. Amy. The black sheep, but still part of that family.

"Yes, hello." Her chin was buried beneath a thick scarf, and her arms were folded around her chest, hugging a black trench coat to her sides.

The rumble of the crowd curled around us. From somewhere not too far away, a brass band sounded through the building. "Hello."

Her grin faded, leaving behind the intense stare I knew so well. I took a few steps toward her. "I know it's a target-rich environment, and I don't want to cramp your style," she said, lowering her voice. "I just wanted to stash my coat in your office."

"Sure," I said with a slight shrug. With Amy I was learning entire new shades of 'I still want to be friends.'

"Come here," she said quietly. I leaned in a little, and she gave me a quick peck on the cheek, the spice of her perfume drifting up to my nose. It was the same one she'd kept on my bathroom counter. Chaos, it had said on the bottle. I'd always teased her about that. "Congratulations," she said.

She pulled away and headed back toward my office. "Thanks," I said to her back.

She paused at the door that led to the darkened offices, her arms still folded. I pushed it open, and it fell closed behind us, muffling the party noises on the other side. "You owe me ten dollars on the Delaware 1st, ten dollars on the Iowa 5th," she rattled off. I tried one of the doors to my office. It was locked. "We pushed across the Mountain states and I lost Arkansas and the Georgia Legislature, but you went twenty on the Michigan gubernatorial."

My gaze breezed past her down the hallway. Amy's little racket made sure she always won on election night, even when she lost. "How you doing on the night?"

"Right now, I'm only up ninety, but there's a waste disposal bond issue in Jasper, Alabama that's going to put me in a new pair of Manolos if it breaks my way." She leaned against the door frame.

The dim hallway light touched her hair in a halo of frizz. "So the guys at Lexington and Concord, they didn't die in vain."

"Yeah, no way." Her smile was genuine.

I fiddled with the knob. "Want to hear the funniest thing?" I glanced down at the door. There was a familiar little shiver in my stomach. I'd mostly avoided mentioning the S-word around her ever since that weird night when they'd shot Simon Donovan and I'd blurted out some version of the truth. But I had to know what she thought. I forced my gaze back up to meet hers. "A week ago, Sam told Horton Wilde's widow that he'd run in his place."

"I know."

"You heard?"

"Yeah." She nodded.

The shiver spread like a stain to my chest, and I sucked it back with a breath. "All these events conspired to-- like the DNC gave up on the race, so the RNC left town, leaving no one to read the exits--"

"You want me to open your door?" she deadpanned.

"I can do it," I said, grabbing at the knob again. I turned it a little, and it fell open. "The President won the Midwest and there was a depressed Republican turnout in the district 'cause it was never a race--"

"Will Bailey also."

"I keep hearing that name." My voice came out in a tense hiss as I walked into my office.

"I helped him raise money." She plunked herself down on the corner of the table opposite my desk.

I rolled my eyes up to the ceiling. There was nothing Amy loved more than a fight people said she couldn't win. "For a dead candidate. Of course you did." She gave me a toothy smile, and I ran a hand across my forehead. "Anyway, Sam's desperately trying to get a hold of the widow so he can have the worst conversation of his life. He's-- he's just gonna have to say--"

"He should do it. That's actually what I came here to tell you."

My eyebrow arched. "What do you mean?"

"He should run."

She wasn't smiling. She was serious. "He'll get killed," I said, lowering myself down onto my desk.

"Yeah, but tomorrow morning, you're going to face a very angry minority who don't feel the President did enough to make them the majority."

This was a repeat of last week's argument, the one we'd already hashed out the night after the debate. "Angry House Democrats. I'm shivering, hold my hand."

"I'm saying--"

"You know what, the President's coattails were long enough to elect a Democrat out of Orange County with literally no pulse." I waved a hand at her. "Any Congressman complaining--"

"--it will be smoothed over."

I rubbed at my eyes. Two AM was too late to go over this whole thing again. "Who has to--"

"--will be smoothed over if the President sends a top lieutenant still shining from victory on a suicide mission to Disney's California Adventure."

My forehead creased. That was an angle I hadn't thought of. "You're ahead 90 bucks?"

"And it's still very early," she said.

"All right, give me your coat." Amy took a step back and pulled at her scarf, peeling her coat off with a twist of her arm. Her dress was red, consisting of skinny little shoulder straps and not much else. My eyes dropped to the fabric that gapped right at her cleavage. "What?" I choked out.

"I didn't say anything." I forced my gaze from her chest to her face and was met by a smirk of triumph. She was holding her coat up.

I grabbed it with both hands. "Okay, your coat will be here."

She turned around and stalked out of my office. "I'm going to go collect money."

"Enjoy." My eyes followed the curve of her hip as I twisted her coat around my hand. The relationship had ended as quickly and explosively as it had begun, and I didn't miss the constant bickering any more than I missed finding long brown hairs all over my shower. But dear God, the woman was hot. I caught a breath, tossing her coat over the rack in the corner of my office.

The music had stopped playing, and the noises from the crowd were giving way to the quiet of a more typical night at the White House. I rubbed at my eyes again. Much as I hated to admit it, Amy had a point about the 47th. If Sam went out to California, just for a couple of months, any criticism from within the party would be totally toothless. And that would keep press attention on the win, give the President that star quality for another couple of months.

My feet carved a line into the carpet. On the other hand, there was this guy Bailey. He'd gotten one of Washington's head feministas to raise money for some old dead guy, and he'd gotten Sam to agree to run for an office he couldn't win.

"He's gotta be..." I mumbled out loud, and stopped pacing. I had to talk to the guy. "Donna?"

She crept into view, her eyebrows flattened into a wary stare. "How'd you know I was out there?"

"I felt you lurking. I want to try to find a guy named Will Bailey with the Wilde campaign in Newport Beach."

Her mouth turned up at one corner. "Yeah." She walked back toward her own office.

I turned back toward my desk, rubbing the palms of my hands together. This Bailey guy was a total unknown, but he clearly had some sort of creepy ability to talk anybody into anything. Like Brad Pitt in Fight Club. A ripple of tension shot across the back of my neck, and I reached up to rub at it.

"I've got his hotel room." I glanced back at the doorway. Donna was waving a yellow sticky note. "It's 281-9186," she said, handing it to me. "Area code 949."

I blinked at her. "That was-- do you have a time machine in there or something?"

She leaned across my desk and stuck it to the Wilson file. "I called the campaign office an hour and a half ago."

"You--"

"I had a hunch." Her shoulders pinched into a shrug.

My chair squeaked as I sat down. I grabbed the remote from my desk and flicked on the television. There was a headshot of Sam on the screen, the one from the White House website. "Amy thinks he should do it. She says Sam would smooth things over with House Democrats."

"Would he?"

"Sure," I said, tossing a dismissive hand in the air. "Yeah. He would. And it would energize the California state party, which, God knows, could use a little energy. And Amy likes this guy Bailey, too--she'd be willing to send in her own troops. We could probably get the President to campaign, too. Couldn't hurt."

Donna's face spread in a satisfied grin. "Not after tonight."

"Yeah." I planted an elbow on my desk and rubbed at my forehead. I didn't return the smile.

"What?" she prompted.

"They're gonna paint him as the President's handmaiden, which would be murder in the 47th. And he can't just pick up and run somewhere else after this. Other guys might survive that, but Sam wouldn't." I pulled my chair closer to the desk. "If this Bailey guy's just another small-time campaign director with a big mouth, he can damn well look somewhere else for his sacrificial lamb." I picked up the phone and held it up to my ear.

"Josh?"

"Hmm?" I glanced up at her. Her smile was gone, and her eyes looked suddenly serious. I reached across and put my finger on the hook.

She stepped back, chewing on her lip. "Nothing."

I let the receiver drop a little, crooking it over my shoulder. "What?"

"I think he should run."

I snorted. "The girl from Wisconsin's all concerned about energizing the California state party?"

She took a step closer, and her voice dropped. "I think-- I'm thinking that doing something like this might energize *Sam*."

"You think getting creamed in a House race is gonna pick up his spirits?"

She tilted her head to one side. "Yeah, I kind of do."

My eyes dropped to the note with Bailey's number on it. As a well-known Democrat in Orange County, Sam would be the underdog with all the press attention--familiar ground for the guy who'd been Bartlet-the-candidate's speechwriter. Not only that, but it would be a real fight with real issues that mattered to him. "Yeah," I found myself saying, and I gave Donna a slow nod. "Yeah, okay."

I stood as I lifted my finger from the hook, grabbing Donna's sticky note and pinching it between my fingers. She responded with a smile and ducked out. I punched in the number, my fingers flying over the keypad.

The phone rang against my ear. "Yeah."

I trapped the receiver between my shoulder and my chin. The sticky note clung to my index finger like a shadow. "Will, this is Josh Lyman. Congratulations."

"You too, Mr. Lyman. It's a great night for you." The guy was clearly exhausted, but he didn't seem too surprised to hear from the White House tonight.

I grabbed the arms of my chair, lowering myself into it. "I want to talk to you for a minute about Sam."

"Uh, sure. I wonder, though, is there any chance we could talk first thing in the morning? It's been a pretty long few months."

I glanced at my watch. It was three hours earlier there. Wimp. "I-- I understand completely, Will," I said, injecting a note of sympathy into my voice.

"Thanks."

He wouldn't let me keep him up, but this was a test he wasn't going to get to cram for. "Let me just ask you this: What are the President's unfavorables in the 47th?"

"I'm sorry?"

"I'm trying to get a sense of what happens when Sam gets tagged with Bartlet fatigue."

"No, I understand. I just don't have the facts and figures."

"Sure." He didn't know. I folded one foot over the other.

"I can call you in the morning from the office--"

"I just assumed," I said casually. "Because most operatives can recite that kind of thing. You know, at the upper levels."

There was a short pause. Too short for him to look anything up. "The President has a 42/48 favorable/unfavorable with a twelve-point gender spread," he recited, as if reading from a page that was burned onto his memory. "Shares our values, 37/58, handling of economy, 41/51."

I pressed my lips together. He was quick. "Strong leader?"

"37/44."

"Thank you," I said, and in response, there was a click from the other end of the line. I put the phone back on the hook and headed out into the bullpen. Donna gave me an expectant look. "Can you find Leo for me?"

"Yeah."

I stepped back to my office, grabbing hold of the doorframe on both sides and stretching the stiffness out of my back. Bailey didn't really sound like the sort of guy who'd hold a gun to Sam's head and demand that he follow his bliss, but he sure had something going for him. He probably talked a good game, big ideas and fancy rhetoric. Sam lived for that stuff.

I balled a fist at my side. Okay, so maybe he was good, but he was still somebody whose name I hadn't heard until tonight, and that wasn't going to be good enough. I spun back around. "Donna?" I bellowed. I bolted back into the bullpen, nearly colliding with Sam. I skidded to a stop, and tossed a glance into Donna's office. It was empty.

Sam's face was drawn with exhaustion, a far cry from a guy who'd just won one big victory and who was about to move on to the next. "I was looking for Donna," he said.

I grinned. "I know why she's hiding from me, but what did you do?" A puzzled wrinkle creased my forehead. "Wait, what do you want with Donna?"

His face tightened. "I'm not allowed to talk to Donna?" he snapped.

I rocked back, shifting my weight away from Sam. "Ah, sure."

His eyes fell to the floor, but then he lifted his chin, his eyes colliding with mine. "I think I'm going to do it."

His words twisted my stomach. "Do what?"

"Run."

Cold fear flooded my thoughts. It was too soon. The timing was all wrong, and the 47th was the wrong place, and worst of all, there was no way he was ready to do something this massive on his own. I could deal with steering clear of him in every other way, but he couldn't do something like this without me. "Aha," I managed.

His shoulders rolled forward, like he was poised for a fight. "If nothing else, it'll be a well-funded airing of the issues, and I think I can do a good job with that. And I promised the widow, and Will Bailey."

"Right, because you can't disappoint a guy who shares a name with both a British comedian and an American Communist." I was trying to sound funny, but the edge in my voice just made it sound mean.

He flinched. "I know you think it's a bad idea because a Democrat just can't win in the 47th," he said, his voice wobbling. "But I think I should do it." He sounded more defiant than convinced.

He wasn't ready. But there was no way he was going to let me help with this, not now. "Okay."

"I mean, sometimes there are more important things than winning."

"Okay," I repeated. I sounded like a robot, but my gut was churning.

He turned on his heels and stalked out. My eyes followed him down the hall, watching him disappear around the corner.

My jaw jutted forward, and I walked back to my office. If he wasn't going to do this first run with me, he still had to do it right. Not with some no-name California kid in charge, but somebody huge. Sam was going to need a pit-bull, a guy who really knew the ropes and who could make tough calls. A guy like Scott Holcomb from the Hoynes campaign.

I stopped at the edge of my desk. Holcomb was fresh off winning the Pennsylvania Senate race for Lawrence Perry. And like every campaign manager tonight, good and bad, he'd just become unemployed.

My hand was on the phone again, and I stabbed at the redial button. This time, it only rang once. "I mean it, Elsie," Bailey snapped. "I'm actually undressed now. I'm physically getting into bed. The covers are all folded back."

"Will, this is Josh Lyman again." I stretched the knots out of the phone cord as I walked back around to my chair.

"Mr. Lyman," he squeaked. "I didn't--"

"Listen, are you thinking about running Sam's campaign yourself? Because you should really think about--"

"No."

"You're not?" The corner of my mouth quirked, and I relaxed into my chair.

"Right now all I'm thinking about is collapsing into the bed that's six inches away from me."

"Well, when you wake up tomorrow morning, you might want to think about talking to Scott Holcomb. His guy just unseated Warren Gillum in Pennsylvania, and four years ago he--"

"I know who Scott Holcomb is. We don't have that kind of money out here."

I twisted the cord around my finger. "I'll talk to the DNC."

"You're going to--"

"I'll take care of it. Call Scott Holcomb, ask him if he's interested."

"And you think he will be." His voice was skeptical.

I leaned back in my chair, propping my feet up on my desk. "Trust me, he will be."

###

SAM: NOVEMBER 22nd, 2002, 4:42 PM

The window behind Will looked out onto bright blue sky and warm California sun. He leafed through another file and poured half of it in the basket next to his desk. The papers rustled against each other as they fell.

"You're sure you don't just want to do this yourself?" I asked him, digging my hands further into my pockets. He'd already told me he wouldn't be sticking around, but watching him pack made me feel abandoned.

"There's a beach on the French Riviera with my name on it," he insisted with a shake of his head. He picked up the vase of flowers on the corner of the desk and grabbed the stack of papers underneath it. He looked up at me. "You don't need me, anyway."

I kicked the toe of my shoe against the desk. "Tell me again why I don't need the one guy to beat a Republican for this seat in a hundred years?" I grimaced. I sounded like a kid. Why won't you stay and play? It was being here that had me reverting. We'd passed by Newport Harbor on the way to the office, and my eighteenth summer had suddenly felt a whole lot more recent.

Will chuckled. "I'm flattered by your faith in me. But listen, the DNC is sending in Scott Holcomb. Back in '98, the guy ran Mortimer Melusky in the Illinois 11th and actually won. In a million years nobody expected it."

I gave him a shrug. "Yeah, 'cause with a name like Mortimer Melusky."

"Have you looked at Holcomb's track record? He's won twelve out of the fourteen races he's run, and he just beat Warren Gillum in Pennsylvania." Will clenched a fist around the pencil case he was holding and waved it at me, his eyes flashing with excitement. "He's a gift to you from the DNC, signed, sealed, and delivered."

"I get it, I get it." I held up a hand. "The guy walks on water."

"They're also sending in Mark Stern as your communications director, and Betsy Watkins is coming all the way from New York to be your financial director." He dropped the pencil case into the box and began ticking the names off on his fingers. "And your political director is going to be Tom Baker. You know, the guy from--"

"--the Warren campaign. Right." Baker was another shining star, an old acquaintance of Leo's. I shifted my weight from one leg to the other. "I'm surprised they're not throwing in a set of brand new Ginsu knives."

"These are big guns, Sam." He tucked one flap inside the other, folding the box shut. "You don't need me."

Aside from the vase of flowers on the corner, the knotty wooden desk was bare now. I leaned forward, trapping a spiky orange petal between my fingers. "With all these out-of-towners, won't they need someone to stick around who actually knows the district?" I said, giving it one last shot.

"Paula wants to stay on as volunteer coordinator, and Karen's going to keep answering phones. And they want to put out an ad for an intern. They're even making it a paid position."

I raised my shoulders in a shrug and stepped around the desk. A patch of sunlight hit my eyes, and I squinted against it. "I guess that takes care of everything, then."

Will had earned his vacation, and Scott Holcomb and all the others were certainly the best of the best. I craned my neck to look out the window. The view was of the parking lot, but even twelve stories up I could still see seagulls swooping down to perch on the telephone wire below, and the wide open water just off Newport Beach down the street drew me closer like a magnet. It had been over a year since I'd been sailing, and more like twenty since I'd done it here. I touched the glass with a fingertip. It was warm.

Will nudged my arm, and I turned around. He pressed a paper-clipped stack of papers into my hand. On the top was a message slip, and flimsy newspaper cutouts dangled limply from it. "Once you've got the money from the DNC I'm sure you'll be hiring a media consultant, but for now you'll probably want to have a look at some of this stuff yourself. Some guy from the L.A. Times wants to grill you on your knowledge of the district--put him off as long as you feel like it. The editorial underneath that is the sort of thing you're going to have to put up with for the duration, but hey, you take positive press where you can get it."

I thumbed through the stack. At the top of one piece was an old yearbook picture of me, complete with a feathered 80's shag. Orange County's Most Eligible Bachelor, the headline read. I grimaced. "If Orange County's most eligible bachelor is a high school student, then that's more than a little disturbing."

Will turned around, unfolding another box against the side of the desk. "You know the OC Register."

"I knew it as the Santa Ana Register, but yeah, they predate even me." I squinted at the picture. An unemployed Chicano in some Laguna Canyon trailer wasn't going to vote for a white-bread face like that. "I'll tell them I'm married to my work."

"Oh, that reminds me. Some guy from the Bay Area Reporter called yesterday morning."

I didn't know that paper. I quirked an eyebrow at him. "What is that, the entertainment paper? And isn't Orange County a little far away from San Francisco?"

Will shook his head. "Yours is the only game in town right now, and your relationship with the President already gives you the attention of the national press. Anyway, the guy didn't say anything outright, but he seemed to be dancing around asking whether you were gay." He chuckled, stretching a film of tape across the bottom of the box.

The black-and-white of the photograph in my hand blurred into layered blotches of gray. I'd rehearsed this moment a thousand times in my mind, but my heart was suddenly racing. The edges of the flimsy newsprint fluttered as I set the stack down on the windowsill, and I forced my chin up, my eyes squarely on Will. "I'm not."

"Okay." He set the packing tape on the desk.

"Technically," I added. Will glanced up, meeting my gaze. A wrinkle spread across his forehead, and a nerve jumped in the back of my neck. "I mean, I sleep with women."

Will arched an eyebrow. "There are those who say you sleep with prostitutes."

I pushed a sigh out of my lungs and leaned against the windowsill. "That was an accident."

"An accident?" He gave me an incredulous smile and picked up the box. "Don't you ever do *anything* on purpose?"

I held up a hand, my palm spread wide. "Look, forget it. I'm not gay." I exhaled. One. Two. "I'm bisexual."

Will was definitely staring at me now. He blinked, clutching the box against his chest. "Bisexual." It wasn't a question.

I took a step toward him. "I've been with men, I've been with women--"

"I know what the word means, Sam." As if in slow motion, he bent down and set the box back on the floor, not taking his eyes off me. As he straightened again, his mouth opened, but no sound came out.

A knock shook the glass in the door, and we both turned. A smiling Asian woman with black hair that just grazed her shoulders waved at Will, and he motioned at her to come in. The door swung open, and her purple skirt flared as she walked into the room. "Sorry to disturb you guys. I just thought you might want to get a look at this." She held up a mockup of a sign, leaning it against the handle of my suitcase like an easel. It was a bright orange-red, with white letters that read Seaborn: Change on the Horizon. With a flourish courtesy of Vanna White, she gestured at the sign from both sides, grinning. "Nice, huh?"

I cracked a smile. There were going to be a lot of bad ocean puns for the next couple of months. "It's good."

"Sam, this is Karen Hashimoto," Will said, pointing at the girl. "Karen, this is our candidate."

She rushed over to me. "It's an honor, sir."

I offered my hand, and Karen gave it a vigorous shake. "It's Sam. And it's my pleasure."

Her smile widened, a flash of teeth. "We actually met a couple of weeks ago. When you came down to talk to Will?" She let my hand drop. "I'm so excited that you're doing this. With you, we really have a chance."

"You did that yourself?" I pointed at the sign.

"Oh, no. We're not a shoestring campaign anymore!" She darted back across the room and grabbed the sign again. "Mr. Stern messengered it over--he'll be here tomorrow. There are two other ones out there, but this one was my favorite. I like the red." She struck the Vanna White pose again, gesturing.

I smiled. Better to have an enthusiastic assistant than one who kept glancing at the clock. "Will said you're the one I should ask about where I'm staying."

"Where you're...staying?" She let her arm drop. The sign brushed against the ground.

"Which hotel?" I prompted. I pointed at my suitcase.

She glanced down at it and then back up at me. "So you're not staying with your mother."

"My mother?" A note of panic seeped into my voice, driving it up a notch. I remembered Sunday's phone call, how excited she'd been that I would be coming back home. This time for months.

"Yeah. We just thought..." Karen let go of the sign. It fell over onto the linoleum, and she bent down to pick it back up, brushing at her skirt to keep it from flaring. "Laguna Beach is right down the--"

"No! I mean...no." I ran a hand across my forehead. It was a reasonable conclusion, but the very thought of waking up to a full breakfast and chocolate milk every morning turned my veins to ice. "I'm just-- I'm not. Really. You don't know my mother."

"Actually, she seemed very nice."

I took a step toward Karen. "My mother was *here*?"

"She, uh, came in yesterday. She asked if there was anything she could do besides put a roof over the candidate's head, and we just assumed..." She shot Will a concerned look and then scanned my face, surveying my reaction. "She left those," she said, pointing at the desk. I followed her finger with my gaze and let it land on the vase of spiky orange flowers. "She really did seem very nice," she added.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "She is very nice."

Karen shook her head. I let my hand drop to my side, and the chaos of the past two years darted across my mind. The hysterical phone calls, several a week before they finally grew calmer, and then a fresh set of tears when Dad had finally remarried last year. I loved her, but it was all baggage I didn't need right now.

"There was..." I let my voice trail off, at a loss for how to explain it. "It's going to be a tough campaign, and I might need to breathe a little."

Karen nodded. "I'll book you a room."

"Thanks," I said as she tucked the mockup under her arm and pulled the door closed behind her. It clicked shut, leaving a short but uncomfortable silence.

"So, okay," Will said, his voice measured. "Tell me why I had to get this from a reporter."

The tension in my neck shot straight down my back. I tried on a smile. "A reporter told you I was going to be staying with my mother?"

Will's eyes rolled up to the ceiling. "Sam..."

"I'm-- I'm sorry." I spread both hands wide in front of me. "Honestly, it didn't even occur to me to mention it. I haven't been particularly...active in that area of my life lately." There hadn't been anyone at all since Josh, no men and no women, either. "I should have said something. I'm sorry."

"Okay, but why didn't I know before I met you?"

"You mean--"

"I mean why wasn't the public aware that one of the counselors to President Bartlet was bisexual?"

My mouth opened a crack. "You think I should come out?"

Will breathed out a laugh. "Well, no. Of all the times you could pick to do that, right now might not be real high up on the list. I was just wondering why this isn't more than a rumor."

I swallowed. "In other words, why I'm not the gay senior White House staffer Bartlet can present to the HRC to prove he's not one of *those* Catholics."

"Yeah," he said, raising his shoulders in a shrug.

I glanced at the floor, running my fingers along the edge of my tie as if to smooth it. A pinch of pain squeezed out the nervous flutter in my throat. "It's complicated."

"Try me."

Josh's angry face flashed across my mind. I'd discussed the subject with Leo only once, as an answer to a direct question, and I hadn't even mentioned Josh. But that had been enough. "The timing just never seemed right," I said, my voice as weak as a bad cell phone connection.

Will's forehead creased, his eyes going out of focus as if he was reading from a page of mental notes. "I thought you were-- weren't you engaged to some New York lawyer for a while?"

"Lisa Seppala," I said, nodding. They'd certainly done their homework on me. "That was before I got into politics. At least seriously."

"Did she--"

"Of course she knew!" My hands balled into fists at my sides. "God, what do you..." Anger spread through me, sending a wash of heat across my face. He was making it sound like I was the kind of guy who'd try to cover this up. "Look, I'm not-- I never wanted to hide anything. It just...hasn't come up."

Will held my gaze with skeptical eyes, and my anger fled as quickly as it had come, leaving behind a shallow pool of embarrassment. I shifted my weight from one leg to the other.

"Okay," he said with a deliberate shrug. He dropped his eyes, releasing me, and turned toward the box.

He crouched down, lifting a stack of books into the box. I felt my eyebrows flatten. He thought I was lying. "Do you think I should tell Holcomb?" I asked. Scott Holcomb had been in the upper echelons of the Hoynes campaign in '97. There was that invisible line around Josh, the one I wasn't supposed to cross, even now. I frowned.

"It's up to you," Will said without looking up. "But if it hasn't come up already, it's probably not going to. It's the prostitute you're going to have to worry about. You're going to hear about her in every debate, and Webb will probably hit you with a couple of family-values ads, too."

"She wasn't a..." I swallowed the end of the automatic response. The distinction between a garden-variety hooker and a law student moonlighting as a call girl would probably be as lost on Will as it had been on C.J. And arguing semantics wasn't the best defense against a character attack, either. I shoved my hands back into my pockets and pressed my eyes shut. This whole thing was a terrible idea.

"Hey." Will's voice was soft, and I glanced up. He was still crouched down by the box, but he was turned toward me, and his face was reassuring. "You know, every guy who's ever run for office's got a couple of skeletons in his closet."

The metaphor startled me. A fragile laugh escaped from my throat, and Will flushed red as he realized what he'd said.

"Okay, let's both just pretend I chose some less unfortunate cliché there," he said, his own nervous chuckles joining my own. He stood, his eyes meeting mine, and brushed himself off. "You're a good candidate. A couple of months from now, I'll be calling from the French Riviera to congratulate California's newest Congressman."

I gave him a tight-lipped smile. "Thanks."

"And you're in good hands. But if there's anything I can do--"

"I've got your number." I patted my breast pocket.

"Anytime." He walked toward the mostly empty bookcase on the far wall and lowered a stack of files onto the desk.

I pressed the release on the handle of my suitcase, drawing it out, and threw the strap of my carry-on over my shoulder. "I should get checked in."

A tinny ring erupted from the phone at my hip, and I dug past the coins and keys in my pocket to pull it out. I glanced at the display. Mom, it read.

I let all the air trickle out of my lungs and held the phone up to my ear. "Hey there."

"Hi, honey. Are you at the airport?"

"I just got in. I'm over at the campaign office."

"Oh." Disappointment flooded her voice. "I was thinking I'd come and meet your flight."

I could develop a bad case of static and tell her we got cut off. That happened to people sometimes. "That's what campaign vehicles are for, Mom. It's okay," I said, not quite keeping the tension out of my words. Will shot me a look from across the room, smirking.

"Don't let me interrupt, but I just wanted to let you know that I've got your room made up. So anytime you want to come by. Take your time."

The claw of panic tightened around my throat. "Uh--"

"Oh, and I'm throwing something together for dinner, if you wanted to join me."

"Dinner. Uh, sure." Will stifled a chuckle with a fist. I clenched my teeth, turning my back to him and plugging my free ear with an index finger.

"Great. You know what time you'll be able to make it?"

I glanced at my watch. It was my last free evening for a long time, and the harbor was so close. "I'm not sure," I said, loosening my tie.

"Well, if you can get here by 6:30, it'll still be warm."

My arm drooped back down to my side. "I'll be there in about half an hour."

"That sounds great!" Her excitement was palpable, and a wave of guilt swept through me. "Oh, honey, I'm so glad you're doing this. It's going to be so good to have you around." To her, I was running for student council. Next I knew, she was going to offer to stay up late making cupcakes for a bake sale.

I eyed the door, tracing an escape route. I could go back to the airport. I could fly back to Washington and not look back. "I'm looking forward to it," I said.

"See you later, honey." The connection died on a click, and I slipped the cell phone back into my pocket. Fixing my eyes on the floor, I pushed a breath out through my nose.

I could do this. It would only be a couple of months. I stifled a breath. "What was that assistant's name again?"

"Karen," Will offered.

"Right." I reached for the door and slid it open. Karen was seated at the desk in the center of the room, her shoulder raised to hold the phone to her ear as she twisted a pencil around her hair. "Karen?" I called out.

She glanced up. "I'll be sure to let him know. Could you hold on just one second, please?" She pressed the hold button. "Yes?"

I tried on a smile. "When you get a chance, could you cancel that hotel room?"

###

JOSH: NOVEMBER 29th, 2002, 2:01 PM

Leo glanced around the table at the rest of the senior staff. "What's next?"

I leaned forward. "Are we gonna be doing anything about the Vickie Hilton court-martial? There are people asking about it." Amy'd cornered me and pressed me to bring it up, but this was the first chance I'd had. Leo raised a questioning eyebrow, and I elaborated. "You know, the lieutenant commander who's about to be court-martialed for committing adultery with a junior--"

"I know who Vickie Hilton is, Josh. I've been up to my eyeballs with that all week." He pinched his brow between a thumb and an index finger. "Tell your girlfriend it's taken care of."

So much for subtlety. "If you mean Amy Gardner, she's my *ex*--"

"The President's gonna get some guys in here and talk about it," he said, cutting me off. Leo turned to Toby. "Anything new on the speechwriting staff? I hear you're feeling a little shorthanded since Sam left."

"Ed and Larry are helping out," Toby said with a shrug. "I've still got Michael and Jerry."

I pointed a pen at him. "The President should sign an executive order that the names of any new communications staff have to form rhyming couplets."

"We brought in a new guy, too," he added. "Will Bailey. He's written for three Congressional races and for a sitting Governor. I read a little thing he wrote for Tillman. It was pretty good."

"Will Bailey?" The only Will Bailey I knew was supposed to be lying on a beach in France right about now.

Toby's eyes shifted over to me. "Yeah."

My eyes flew open. It was the same guy. "Horton Wilde's campaign manager."

"Yeah."

I threw my arms out to my sides. "Okay, is this guy some kind of stalker or something?"

Toby turned back to Leo. "He started Wednesday. He's already worked through Thanksgiving, which is more than we can expect from our full-time people."

He'd told Holcomb he was going to France for a long, long time. "I thought he was--"

"It's just on a temporary basis, to pick up the slack on the Inaugural," Toby interrupted, not looking at me. "We're putting him up at the JW Marriott."

The biggest speech of the year, possibly the biggest of the President's career, and Toby was giving it to a rookie. I dropped my pen and leaned toward him across the table. "You're bringing in some minor league speechwriter from California to do the Inaugural? Whose stupid idea was this?"

Toby swiveled his chair toward me. "He grew up in Brussels. And it was Sam's."

I blinked. "Sam's what?"

The corner of his mouth quirked. "Stupid idea."

My jaw slid forward, and I clamped my teeth together. Not only could the guy talk Sam into running for office, he could maneuver himself into a job in the White House.

"He's good?" Leo asked.

"Very good," Toby agreed, his expression serious.

Leo gave him an approving nod. "Good."

My cell phone buzzed against the table in front of me, sending a minor earthquake across the surface. Four pairs of eyes turned toward it, and I turned it over, glancing at the display. It was a California number.

Holcomb had said he'd call me back. "Ah, I should take this." I shot a glance at the door, waving my phone in the air. "Do you mind?"

Leo rolled his eyes. "By all means, Josh, don't let our staff meeting disrupt your phone call."

"Right back." I pushed the chair back as I stood and fled for the door. It snapped closed behind me, and I put the phone up to my ear. "Hey, Scott. Thanks for getting back to me."

"What's going on?" His voice was a snap of impatience, but Holcomb always sounded like that when he was jazzed about a campaign. This was a good sign.

"You know that series of fundraisers you were talking about putting together?" I peeked into the Roosevelt Room as I walked past, catching a glimpse of the back of the Secretary of Agriculture's head.

"Sure."

My mouth spread into a grin. "How about kicking them off with one that gets straight to the core of your voter base?"

Holcomb snorted. "You mean all twenty of the district's registered Democrats?"

"I mean Mexican-Americans. Sam put the first Hispanic Supreme Court justice on the bench. He's fluent in Spanish. They love him, or at least they will once they get to know him." My step lightened as I passed through the yellow hall and into the lobby. Holcomb was going to love this. "I did some digging, and the Jacaranda Community Center is having their annual Fiesta del something or other this weekend. We're talking thousands of people."

There was a short pause. "I'm listening," he said grudgingly.

"When's your thing scheduled? You said a week?"

"Next Saturday."

"Well, cancel the Hyatt," I said, pausing just outside the bullpen. Donna was standing at a photocopier on the other side of the glass. "You hold your fundraiser at the center next Saturday, and *this* Saturday you put Sam at the fiesta, passing out brochures and shaking hands."

"It's kind of short notice. How do you know the center's not booked?"

"It's not." Donna glanced up at me, and then back down. I turned around, fitting the doorframe into the hollow of my back.

"You talked to them?"

I shrugged. "I made a few calls."

"Okay, is there any reason why you're not out here running this campaign yourself?"

I smirked. I could see him standing in some California office waving his arms, red-faced and glaring, with his messy blond hair standing out from his head. "I've got a job."

"Right now I think you've got two," he grumbled.

"Look, do you want my help or not? You'll want to talk to an..." I slid a hand into my breast pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. "...Ana Dominguez. She can pull some strings, maybe even book you the center for free. You advertise at UC Irvine, at all the local Mexican organizations. The 47th is more diverse than people think, but Webb's so cemented to the throne that nobody to the left of Genghis Khan bothers to vote. You've got to get 'em organized, get 'em excited about Sam."

"We've got a couple volunteers from the Laguna Beach Dems," he said, his voice yielding a little. "There aren't many of them, but they're pretty noisy."

I smiled. He was on the right track. "Right, and once you find more of 'em, they'll get noisier. Laguna Beach, Laguna Canyon, the back areas of Dana Point that everybody's forgotten about."

"And then we run with the housing, jobs, education angle." Excitement sliced through his voice, and my smile spread into a grin. "Build him a reputation as a strong community advocate."

"Exactly. Sam's got a lot more to say about that than he does about crap like light rail, anyway." I glanced over my shoulder back into the bullpen. Donna was gone.

"We'll save the light rail for when he's in front of the OCBC," Holcomb said, the gears turning again. "This is good. And we're already billing him as a new generation of leadership. One spot's already running, and Mark's got another one in the works."

"Right, 'cause he's, like, a hundred years younger than Webb." I headed back down the hall again. "How's he doing?"

"Sam? He's fine. I mean, there's all the usual stuff that happens when an operative makes a first run."

My lip curled into a smirk. I could just see him at his first staff meeting, watching everybody else call the shots about his campaign. "Let me guess. He wants to write his own speeches."

Holcomb laughed. "You got it."

"Just remind him what happens when the President ad-libs in front of a luncheon meeting. That'll calm him down." My mind flashed on a memory of Sam speaking to the younger staff back in 1998. He'd always been the one who could fire them up, even when the rest of us had long since lost faith. "How's his energy level?"

"Fine." I could hear his shrug. "But ask me again in a couple of months."

I shifted the phone to my other ear as I walked past the stairs. "Sam might need a little hand-holding when it comes to the focus on the candidate."

"Are you saying he's insecure?"

I snorted. "Hardly. But he's not used to being the center of attention. He's gonna love it, but he might need to be pushed there. Once you've got him there, he'll be on fire."

"Got it." There was a rustling sound, followed by a few muffled voices. "Hey, you don't happen to know how to get a hold of Will Bailey, do you? I left my number on his cell, but I don't know how often he'll be picking up messages while he's in Nice, and I need to ask him a couple of things about some numbers he left me."

My eyebrows flattened. "He's here. Apparently he made a pit stop in Washington and got stuck. Toby's hired him in Communications." Donna glanced up at me again as I passed by her office and stepped into my own.

"Toby Ziegler?"

"Yeah. He's gonna help write the Inaugural."

Holcomb made a noise like a sudden gust of wind. "That's a coup for him. At least he's good."

"So I hear." I flicked at a crumpled piece of paper on my desk. It flew over the edge and landed on the floor.

"But hey, thanks for this." His voice was sincere.

"No problem." There was a rustle of papers behind me, and I looked over my shoulder at Donna. I turned to face her, and propped myself up on the corner of my desk.

"Anaconda Community Center?" Scott asked.

"Jacaranda." I pronounced it in Spanish, the way Sam would say it. "I think it's a-- a flower. I'll fax you the stuff I've got." I reached behind me for the file with the stuff from the center on it and handed it to Donna.

She glanced at the name on it and nodded. "Thanks," Holcomb said in my ear. "I'll tell Sam you called."

There was a ripple of discomfort in my chest, and I rubbed at it. "Hey, you know, you don't have to bother him with this," I said, ducking my head.

"I was just going to tell him you said hi, Josh, not give him a quiz," Holcomb sneered. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Donna mouth 'Holcomb', her eyes questioning. I nodded.

"He doesn't need to know," I said quietly. Donna shot me a sharp look, placing a hand on her hip, and I slid my gaze across to the file cabinet on the far wall.

Holcomb let loose a cackle. "Whatever you say, buddy. Take care."

"You too." I snapped the phone closed and slid it into my pocket. It clinked against my keys.

"Don't you have senior staff?" Donna asked.

I pushed myself to my feet and shot past her on my way out the door. "I'm heading back down."

"What was the phone call?"

"It was nothing."

"Hey, what do you think Sam would say if he found out you were meddling like this?"

Her voice stopped me in my tracks. I turned around. "Okay, I'm not meddling."

Her hand was still on her hip, and now she was glaring at me. "You're meddling."

"I'm giving professional advice to a friend in need. At no charge, I might add, despite the fact that I could get at least five hundred an hour as a consultant." Her glare became a cold stare, and I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. "Sam wants to win, doesn't he?"

"So you think he wouldn't mind."

I gave her a deliberate shrug. "Why would he mind?" She raised an eyebrow. "What?" I asked.

She turned around. "Whatever you say."

My face folded into a scowl as I turned back around and headed down to Leo's office.

###

SAM: DECEMBER 7th, 2002, 7:34 PM

The air was just cool enough for a chill, but I could barely feel it through my post-event high. The crowd out back consisted of the dozen or so supporters willing to forego hors d'oeuvres for an up-close look at the candidate, but the applause from inside the hall was still sounding in my ears. The speech had gone better than well, and there was nothing quite like that. I'd almost forgotten.

One of the women from the community center came closer, and I gave her my best winning smile. Her face was lined with age, but her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and her red blouse looked casually youthful. "Hi," I said, sticking out my hand. "I'm Sam Seaborn."

Her grip was firm. "Cristina Pulido," she said, breathless. "Ya tiene mi voto, señor Seaborn." You already have my vote. She rolled the 'R' in my name just like my Mexican host mother always had.

"Gracias." I let go of her hand. "Voy a hacer todo lo posible para ganar." Thank you, and I'll do what I can to win. I stole a glance at the man standing beside her-- her husband? He rubbed at the jowls on his neck, but his expression remained blank. He looked vaguely familiar.

"Usted habla muy bien el español," the woman continued, still not letting go of my hand. "Su mamá es hispana?"

"Muy amable," I said, giving her what I hoped passed as a modest smile. "Pasé un año de la secundaria en México." I'd heard the compliment before, but Mom was one hundred percent WASP. My free hand brushed the cell phone in my pocket through my pants, and a flicker of guilt passed through me. I'd said I'd check in with her sometime before the speech, but there hadn't been time.

Mrs. Pulido gave me a nod. "Ah, exchange student," she said, pronouncing both words as if they began with vowels. Her gaze bounced over to the man next to her. "We want our Paco to do that. Our grandson. My cousin still lives in Guadalajara. Maybe in a few years, eh?" She nudged the man beside her with an elbow. He rolled his eyes and rubbed at his ribs.

I squinted at him. The guy really did look familiar. He was white, and older than she was, at least sixty. What was left of his hair formed a graying ring around the crown of his head, and the lines around his frown were so deep that he looked like he hadn't smiled in at least a decade. I turned to face him. "So what did you think of the speech?"

He shrugged. "It was fine." His voice was low, gravelly. I could almost place it. "I'm not very political."

His wife poked him in the arm. "He been asking why he should vote for a Democrat. I tell him he is a teacher. When that Mr. Webb ever done something for education? But my husband, he don't care." She leaned in toward me, cupping her hand over my ear. "He always vote Republican," she said in an exaggerated stage whisper. "Es-- como se lo digo-- a mixed marriage."

I chuckled, but zeroed in on the guy. I was sure I knew him from somewhere. I shook my head. "Sir, you look incredibly familiar."

A trace of a smile cracked the corner of his mouth, and his wrinkles deepened. "You were in one of my math classes about twenty-five years ago. Laguna Beach High School."

Before my eyes, the man transformed. His glasses grew larger, thicker, and the bald spot on his head filled in with stark black hair. The stern expression and the sour voice were still the same, even though he wasn't droning on about simplifying equations. I stuck out my hand, fresh energy bubbling up from inside of me. "Mr. Hermann. Of course, how could I forget?"

He gave it a noncommittal squeeze. "You remember," he said.

"I'll tell you what. I could rattle off a couple dozen reasons why you should vote for a Democrat. But I won't."

Mr. Hermann slipped his hands into his pockets, his eyes skeptical.

I edged closer to him. "You already know why you should vote for this particular Democrat, though. I grew up here, and my mother's lived here since shortly after I was born."

He pressed his lips together, but he didn't look away. He was listening. I inhaled a long breath, opened my mouth, and let the words tumble out.

"I know this community. I know its schools because I went there myself. The public schools have a lot to contend with in places like Carden Academy, Flintridge Prep, Fairmont, but there's no reason why places like Laguna Beach High and Century High can't give them a run for their money, because they're full of taxpaying citizens who care about their kids. I've spent my time in Washington helping create a program that provided a tax credit for parents with kids in college, and another program that pays kids to become teachers. In the years since President Bartlet assumed office, we've increased federal funding for schools by seven percent. But as you well know, Mr. Hermann, I'm not from Washington. I've been all over the country, and I've never lost my love for where I grew up. I know what streets need to be repaved, because I've driven on them. I know what people here need, because I've talked to them. They're my friends, my family. And I know how to speak for them in Washington."

It wasn't great rhetoric, but every promise uncovered another possibility, like shoving aside a boulder and letting loose a river of hope. Maybe I could win. Maybe I could make these things happen. The corners of Mr. Hermann's frown relaxed, but the dubious look remained in his eyes. "You were pretty unremarkable at algebra," he grumbled.

I grinned. "I'd make a much better Congressman."

His eyebrow shot up. "I'll keep that in mind." His posture shifted slightly, like he was steeling himself. "All you guys are crooks anyway. I suppose it doesn't matter whether I pick a Republican or a Democrat."

I caught the man's gaze and held it. If there was anything I knew with every fibre of my being, it was that he was wrong about that. The stench of cynicism that had been clinging to me for two years seemed to dissolve into the night air, and the entire world narrowed to this moment. I put a hand on his arm. "Elect me, and I promise I'll prove you wrong. On both of those counts."

I let the one hand drop to my side, and held out the other one for him to shake. Thrown, Mr. Hermann stumbled back a step. He grabbed hold of my hand, gripping it hard.

A hand on my shoulder brought me back. "Mr. Seaborn." It was Tom's unmistakable baritone. I dropped Mr. Hermann's gaze as I let go of his hand, and turned around. Tom gave me a long look.

My political director was at least a foot taller than me, with bushy eyebrows and a stern look. Even when he wasn't wearing the Armani suit, he wasn't the sort of guy you said no to. I turned back to the couple, grazing Mrs. Pulido's sleeve with my fingers. "It was wonderful to meet you, Mrs. Pulido." I turned to Mr. Hermann, who still looked startled. "And it was so great to see you again, Mr. Hermann. Say hello to Mrs. Rogers for me, if you have a chance."

And then we were walking, Tom half a step ahead of me, Betsy two steps behind, her blonde hair almost white underneath the street lights. A light wind hissed through the trees that lined the parking lot, and we breezed past cars as if carried by it. A thousand volts of energy pumped through me. I wondered if this was how the President had felt on his way out of that dingy little community hall where I'd first heard him speak.

"--on fire out there tonight," Tom was saying. "During the speech, and after. You've sure got Bartlet's skill with a rope line."

His face was red, but a smile stretched the lines around his mouth. I smiled back. "Thanks."

He raised a finger in the air, pointing it at me. "About the President, though. If you could hold off on referring to him directly, that'll serve you better. You never know who you're talking to out here. But apart from that, great job." He threw a look at Betsy over his shoulder. "And whoo, what a crowd!"

I slid a hand into my pocket. The hall had been full. It hit me for the first time how unexpected that was. "There had to have been a couple hundred people there tonight."

"Three hundred sixty-four, if our count's right."

"Give or take a dozen," Betsy confirmed.

I stepped into the glow of a street light against the concrete. A warm feeling rose inside of me, radiating outward to the tips of my fingers. "To hear some people talk, there aren't three hundred sixty-four Democrats in the whole district."

"You're bringing them out of hiding," Betsy said, a little short of breath as she struggled to keep up. "That's good for the party, too. Scott'll love that."

"Remind me to thank him," I said to her. It had been Scott's strategy to make a thrust for the Latino community, and his idea to switch the location of the event at the last minute. We'd had a couple of clashes over the tight controls he kept on everything, but he'd definitely called this one.

The campaign car was a nondescript blue Ford, and Tom unlocked the door behind the driver's seat for me. Betsy got behind the wheel as Tom climbed in next to her. For a long moment, I stared at the seat in front of me, trying to engrave the encounter with Mr. Hermann onto my mind. Time and time again I'd seen the President connect with people like that, watched him turn skeptics into supporters with a few choice words and a handshake. I was no Josiah Bartlet, but maybe I'd learned something more from him than how to bounce back from bad press.

"You know that guy back there?" I said. "My old math teacher?"

Betsy slid the key into the ignition and craned her neck to face me. "What about him?"

"That's the Orange County I remember. There are all these guys out here-- basically nice, ordinary guys like that who don't know a thing about Congress except that they can't be trusted. Twenty years ago I left it all behind, but what if I can change it?"

Betsy pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road. Two spotlights outside the big furniture store on Pullman danced, crossed paths, and then parted again.

"It's not that they're even dedicated Republicans," I continued. "They've just got all this knee-jerk negativity. It's complacency. All they've ever known is Chuck Webb and guys like him, and they think that's how it's got to be."

Betsy pulled to a stop at a light, and her eyes met mine in the rear-view mirror. She nodded.

"Have you ever noticed how if you run for President, people assume you want to be a great leader, but if you run for Congress you're just in it for the power? People make such cynical assumptions about political ambition. Isn't running for office, any office, a higher calling? Isn't this supposed to be about doing good in the world, about changing it for the better? If I can reach a guy like Mr. Hermann..."

I let my voice trail off. My words were running away from me, and Betsy and Tom were both smiling knowingly in the front seat, not even trying to rein me in. I sniffed. We'd always approached the President the same way after an event like this, when he'd been so fired up it would seem he'd never come down. The handler had become the handled. I spread my hands flat against the leather seat, anchoring myself.

The harbor was still bright with activity as we drove past, and the Christmas lights strung along the docks shimmered against the water's surface like a watercolor wash. A press of a button edged the car window open a crack, and I let my eyes fall shut as the salt air hit my lips. I hadn't realized it until it had come out of my mouth, but what I'd said to Mr. Hermann had been true. With each passing day this place felt more and more like home. I'd hiked along this same road from Newport to Laguna the day Dad hadn't come to pick me up from my sailing lesson. The restaurant with the bright blue trim had changed both names and ownership, but it was still the same place where my friends and I had gone every Saturday to grab a burger and fries. I inhaled a long breath, holding onto it. A sense of calm washed over me, like a cool ocean breeze.

The car came to a halt by the door to the back entrance, directly in front of my rented Chevy Malibu. "Here's where this train stops," Betsy said cheerfully.

Tom turned around and looked at me. "Unless you're up for a meeting with Jack and Martha Henley. We're just having drinks."

The Henleys were prominent local philanthropists with deep pockets and strong centrist convictions. Part of me wanted to run with the momentum and go along for the ride, but most of me just wanted to sit at my desk for half an hour before braving my mom's house. I nodded toward the building and pulled on the door handle. "I've got a couple of calls to make."

Tom shrugged. "Suit yourself, but you should give them a call later. Full debrief tomorrow with Scott?"

"Nine AM," I confirmed.

Tom rifled through his notes as the car door slammed behind me. He mumbled something to Betsy that I couldn't quite hear, and she nodded. A ripple of pride floated down my back. They were good, my team. "Hey, guys?" I said.

Tom poked an Armani elbow out through the open window. The wrinkles in his forehead deepened into caverns.

"Thanks for today," I said. Tom raised a hand to his forehead in a mock salute, and Betsy grinned as she drove off.

The dingy back stairwell was deserted, but my I was still too full of energy to stand in an elevator. I took the ten flights at a steady pace, not quite enough to wind me. The doors to the campaign office were locked, but Karen spotted me through the glass and scurried over to let me in.

The lights were already dimmed, and even Mark's office was dark, but Karen's little black jacket still looked pressed and perfect. "It's eight o'clock on a Saturday night," I said, chuckling. "Are you training for a White House job?"

She giggled. "Mr. Holcomb is interviewing an intern."

I blinked. "At eight o'clock on a Saturday night?" I peered around the corner at his door. It stood open a crack, sending a stream of fluorescent light into the darkened hall.

"There were so many applicants that he had to schedule them for all afternoon. This is the last one." Karen rushed back to her desk and grabbed a short stack of message slips. "Just a few calls. This one's from your mom...she wanted to ask whether you'd be around for dinner, but...probably not, right? And this one's-- okay, that one's from your mom, too, from early this morning. And Mr. Holcomb wanted you to stop in if you had a chance."

I grabbed the stack from her without looking at them. "That's it?"

She held up two empty hands. "That's it."

"Only two messages from my mom, that must be some kind of record." I crumpled them into a ball and tossed them into Karen's trash can, a muscle tightening in my jaw. A tremor of annoyance collided with the guilt that had been there ever since I'd moved back into my old bedroom. Mom was trying, but she was still convinced that a few home-cooked meals would roll us both back to the 1980s. I inclined my head in the direction of Scott's door. "Okay if I go check out the intern?"

Karen nodded. "It's open a crack. If you stand right on the other side of it, you can hear everything. Just don't touch the door--it squeaks." She blinked, chewing on the corner of her lip. "Not that I'd know."

"Of course not." I dismissed her with a wave of my hand, and headed around the corner and down the hall to Scott's office.

Three inches of light fell into the darkened hallway from behind the thick wooden door. I hovered behind it. "So you're at UC Irvine," Scott was saying. I couldn't see him, but after a month of this I could easily imagine his casual posture and no-nonsense expressions.

"Government major."

"Senior?"

"This is my third year. But I've got enough credits to be a senior."

Her voice was breezy, with an edge of arrogance. My mouth quirked. I liked her already. "Your references are excellent," Scott continued. "I see you've got an internship with the county party?"

"Since the summer. It's only part-time because of school, but I really feel I've learned a lot. And before that I worked on George Brady's mayoral campaign, so I'm familiar with things like opposition research."

"And you say you're from..." There was a short pause, and a rustling of papers. "Santa Ana."

"My parents are from there. I live at school during the year. Mr. Seaborn's got a campaign stop in Santa Ana tomorrow at two, so he'll get a chance to see it for himself."

She knew my campaign schedule. It was no great trick to memorize a few things from the website, but it showed initiative. I found myself nodding. "Mr. Seaborn grew up in Laguna Beach," Scott countered, his voice flat. "I'm sure he's spent plenty of time in Santa Ana. How familiar are you with the candidate?"

"Well, I know he's the best thing to happen to Orange County in twenty years. He's smarter than two Webbs-- I mean, not that that's difficult, but what I'm saying is that Seaborn can think circles around him. But he's also got heart, and people here like that." From inside the office, a chair squealed. "I know you're not from here, Mr. Holcomb, but I'm sure you know that this is a tough place to be a Democrat. I want to be a part of putting Seaborn back in Washington, and this time on Capitol Hill."

I leaned in toward the door. She had the barely perceptible accent of someone who'd spoken Spanish at home, but she spoke well, probably trained by some high school debate team. The thought sent a smile across my face. Twenty years ago I might have gone up against her myself. The muscles in my shoulders relaxed, and I stood taller.

"On the other hand, he's smug as all get out, and he's going to have to curb that or else we won't have a chance."

The smile froze on my face. I leaned closer.

"He's going to come across as a know-it-all, and on top of that his idealism will make him look immature. And the prostitute story, well." She snorted. "We're going to have to rein that in before it pops back up again when we're least expecting it."

I swallowed a chuckle. She sure wasn't lacking in confidence.

Scott's next words were mumbled, and I leaned in toward the door, straining to hear. My foot stumbled against the carpet, and in a split second I lost my last two inches of balance. Reflex pushed my hand against the door, and a loud squeak echoed through the hallway. Two chairs squealed in unison from the inside of Scott's office, followed by a long, uncomfortable silence.

A rush of warmth rose in my cheeks, and I stepped into view. The girl clutched a fist against her chest, her eyes wide with shock. She was stocky, maybe twenty years old, with short black hair and coffee-colored skin. I held up a hand. "Excuse me. Don't let me interrupt."

"Mr. Seaborn," the girl gasped, scrambling to her feet. I looked down at her. She couldn't have been an inch over five feet tall, but her cowering shoulders seemed to deflate her even further. One hand fluttered against her green dress, smoothing out wrinkles that weren't there, and the other pulled at the row of tiny silver rings that lined her right earlobe.

The look of horror in her eyes chased away my own embarrassment. "It's Sam. And you're..."

"Elena. Elena Gonzalez."

Scott's eyes burned into me, but I stepped forward and offered the girl my hand. "Good to meet you." She tried to squeeze it, but her hand was trembling. I cocked my head at Scott, giving him a crooked smile. His nostrils flared. "So, you wanted to work for me?" I said to Elena.

Her face flushed. "I'm so, so sorry. I didn't mean-- I was just trying to..." She opened her mouth as if to speak, but all that came out was a quick little sigh.

She wasn't afraid to speak her mind, but she knew when she'd gone too far. And she was sharp, and it sounded like she had the experience, too. "You've been working for the county party?" I prompted. "Field? Communications? Fundraising?"

"Uh...mostly communications," she stammered.

"Too bad, we could've used someone to work with Betsy on fundraising." I shrugged. "Oh well."

Her hands groped at the air in front of her. "I-- I'm sorry. I should go." She reached around to the back of her chair, grabbing a blue windbreaker.

"All right, suit yourself." I pointed a finger at her. "But promise me you'll at least stick around long enough to give Scott here your social security number."

Elena's contrite expression twisted into one of shock. Scott's hands were white around the arms of his chair, and his eyes narrowed. "There are two more candidates coming in tomorrow morning--"

"Good to know," I said, cutting Scott off. "We can call them tonight and tell them we won't be needing them."

"Sam." Scott's voice had dropped an octave, warning. Elena's mouth began to turn up at the corners, and she pushed her shoulders back, adding a half-inch of height.

I turned to Scott. "If there's one thing I learned from President Bartlet, it's that there's nothing more valuable to a politician than smart people who challenge him." I nodded at Elena. "I want you on my team."

Her smile lit up her face, her teeth flashing. "Thank you, sir."

"It's Sam."

"Thank you, Sam."

"Right. I'll have Karen draw up the paperwork." Scott's words were pressed out through gritted teeth. "If you could stay for about another fifteen minutes so I can get a handle on what exactly you've been doing with the local party, that would be great. " He made a sweeping gesture in my direction, as if bestowing authority on me. "If it wouldn't be too much trouble."

Elena's eyes jumped from Scott to me. Behind her confident smile was a flicker of amusement. "Of course."

"So I'll see you tomorrow morning?" I said brightly.

A wrinkle formed between her dark eyebrows. "Tomorrow morning?" She glanced at Scott, but his glare was focused on me.

"Staff meeting," he said.

"Nine AM," I added. I stepped over to the door. "I'll see you there."

"You can count on it," Elena called out.

I floated back down the hall to my office. Karen was bent over a phone call, but her eyes questioned me as I walked past. I nodded at her, my face fixed in a grin. This girl would keep Scott in line. Hell, she'd keep me in line. A tight spot in my shoulders loosened, muscles I'd forgotten were even there.

My hand hovered over the light switch, but I let it fall as my gaze landed on the window. The moon was full against the night sky, sending a glow across my office, and a seagull passed across it, wings spread wide like an eagle's. My desk chair creaked as I relaxed into it, and I spun around to face the stars. A vase of flowers from Mom's garden stood on the windowsill. I plucked one of the dead ones out and tossed it in the trash.

My head bobbed up and down, a slow nod to myself. I wanted this. A month ago I'd been clutching at anything to get out of even running, but now I couldn't think of anything I wanted more. I wanted a home office like this one and a Washington office in the Rayburn Building. I wanted the eight AM Saturday meetings with constituents like Mr. Hermann and Mrs. Pulido. I wanted the committees, the conference calls with the White House.

The White House. A jolt of realization shot through me. For the first time in over a year, an entire day had passed and I hadn't thought about Josh at all.

###

JOSH: DECEMBER 26th, 2002, 11:15 AM

An image of a Hispanic woman hugging a little girl with black braids flickered across the monitor. The music was that uplifting stuff they always use in campaign ads, with cheesy strings that made it sound like a 60s soap opera theme. "...it's the memories and the love shared by parents and children," Sam continued in voiceover, calm and confident, and the strings were joined by a horn. The picture cut to footage of him helping two little boys put a toy boat in the water, his hair pressed back against his head by the wind. "This community isn't just where I grew up. It's home."

I pressed pause on the remote and frowned. I would have used something more like: "This community isn't just my ticket to Capitol Hill." This would have been the perfect ad to show that Sam was the *real* local candidate, and to contrast him with an opportunist like Webb. I hit play again.

There was a thump from my doorway, and I turned to see Donna kicking off her boots. She was huddled in a red wool coat, a red-and-white hat pulled down over her ears. "Okay, I know a lot of the junior staff are still nestled all snug in their beds, but is it possible that there were actually more people here on Christmas Day than there are today?"

I ran a thumb across the pause button. "I don't know. How many people are here today?"

"Not many. You look tired." She glanced at the screen. "Aren't you still rewriting the federal budget?"

"It was on Leo's desk by four AM. It'll get bounced back here after lunch, but for the next hour or so there's a bit of a--" A yawn escaped from my mouth, and I rocked back in my chair. "A break."

Donna pulled her hat off and slid it into her pocket. Her forehead creased. "This is a break?"

I glanced up at the still image of Sam standing between a huge Christmas tree and a beach umbrella. Only in California. "More like a pause," I said, and I rolled my neck around, pulling at yesterday's tension. "Is there coffee in the bullpen?"

Donna leaned across my desk, and a piece of paper landed on it with a thwap. "Here. This is better than coffee."

The words on the printout had the blurred edges of a fax, and the phone number at the top was from Sam's campaign office. My eyes scanned the page: Sam's latest internals. With undecideds allocated, he was running forty-nine one against Webb's forty-nine four. I nodded. Everything was going according to plan. I set the fax back down on the desk. "That's great."

Donna's eyebrow quirked. "That's great? Sam's running neck-and-neck with Chuck Webb, and all you can say is 'that's great'?"

"It is, it's great." I motioned for her to come in. "Come here. Tell me what you see."

Donna pulled off a glove and put a hand on her hip. "Sam in a Santa hat." She squinted at the screen. "You know, somebody should really tell him red isn't his color."

"Okay, then tell me what you don't see."

I pressed play again. On my screen, Sam smiled at a young white family carrying a baby, standing in front of a City Hall designed by someone who thought architecture had peaked in the 60s. "I want every child growing up here to share in the same joys and opportunities I've had," the voiceover continued. The picture cut to a shot of boys playing football, followed by two teenagers in graduation gowns under a fat yellow sun. "And I'll take your message to Washington to ensure bright futures for everyone in Orange County."

The music swelled to a crescendo, and the ad finished with a shot of Sam in a blue polo shirt and jeans, standing with smiling constituents on a generic suburban California street corner. It was overlaid with the text: SEABORN: CHANGE ON THE HORIZON. There was a pop from the speaker, and then the screen went black.

I gave Donna a pointed look. "What?" she said with a shrug. "Winter coats? Snow? It's California, Josh, I don't think they make that stuff out there."

I leaned back in my chair. "The whole thing is about Sam."

Donna's mouth stretched into a smirk. "You think he should have turned to the camera and offered us zero down on a used Chevy?"

"They know who he is by now, Donna. Where's the next step? Where's the part that warns them about what'll happen if they choose the wrong guy? It's like they're scared to remind the voting public that there's another choice."

"You think Sam should go negative?"

"Webb lost to a dead Democrat. He's still vulnerable. If there was ever a time to make unflattering comparisons with Sam's golden-boy status, it's now. I mean, the guy went to Washington and never looked back, and he's been there for over a decade. Webb gets to abandon his district and they don't even bother to call him on it?"

Donna unrolled the scarf from her neck. "Wasn't Holcomb worried about Sam being tagged as a carpetbagger?"

I shook my head. "They've got Sam's high school yearbook photos plastered all over every local paper from L.A. to San Diego. They've got numbers saying he's a strong local candidate. Webb's got a great big house here in MacLean and a tiny one-bedroom apartment in Newport Beach. So far in 2002--an election year--he's spent a total of fifty-six days in the district." The tape jerked to a stop, and then started to whir as it went into auto-rewind. "Mr. Webb's continuing neglect of the people of this community is a sign of arrogance and disrespect." My hand slammed flat against the desk. "That's what they should be saying."

"So I should get Holcomb on the phone." She gave me a slight smirk.

"Yeah." I swiveled my chair back toward the screen.

"You know it's only--" Donna glanced at her watch. "A quarter after eight there."

"He'll be at the office."

"Right." She turned around and headed back into the hall.

I lifted my chin and peered out after her. "And if he's not, he should be," I yelled.

The tape rumbled to a stop, and I pressed play again. The first shot was a panorama of the Orange County coastline, and then the camera pulled in tight on a closeup of Sam surrounded by smiling Californians. "This community is brought together by more than its boundaries," the voiceover began. "It's the beauty of the landscape."

There was a cough from the doorway, and I slid my thumb against the pause button. "See, right after this beach shot, they could--" I swiveled my chair around. It was Will Bailey. My heart sped up, and I dove for the remote. My fingers fumbled against fast-forward, and then rewind. Images of Sam raced across my screen, and I finally hit stop. The screen went dark.

A smile tugged at the corner of Bailey's mouth. "That was Sam's new ad?"

"No," I said quickly.

His forehead wrinkled. "Okay."

Heat washed over my face, and I narrowed my eyes at him, my hand fidgeting with the remote. "What did you need?"

"Toby said you were working on the budget." He slid his hands into his pockets, and then pulled them back out.

"Yeah. So?"

He threw a glance into the hallway, as if checking to make sure the rest of the building hadn't disappeared on him. "I was wondering if you had a copy of the current numbers for HUD."

His nervousness made me itch. If he didn't belong here, he shouldn't be here. "This is for the Inaugural?"

"Yeah."

My jaw slid forward. Anybody else in Communications would have known how to get their hands on that kind of information without going through to the Deputy Chief of Staff. "The HUD budget hasn't changed in six months."

A coatless Donna appeared behind Bailey in the hallway. He glanced at her. "I just thought--"

"Look, if you can't figure these things out on your own, then get Bonnie or Ginger to help you, okay?" I tilted my head toward the door, dismissing him. "We're kind of busy down here."

Bailey pressed his lips together. "Sorry to bother you."

Donna followed him with her eyes as he slinked off. When she turned back to me, she was scowling. "You know, he's a nice guy."

I trained the remote back on the screen. This 'Donna, defender of the underdog' act was really getting old. "Holcomb? Nah, he's a pit bull."

"I mean Will Bailey, Josh. He's nice, and he's funny, and I hear he's pretty good at his job, too."

I pressed out a sigh. "I'm sure there's a point in there somewhere, but for the life of me--"

"My point is that you're his boss--"

"I'm his boss's boss."

"--and you should be above hazing the new guy." She folded her arms. "If I didn't know you'd never be caught dead on one, I'd think one of those bicycles was yours."

I blinked. "Bicycles?"

"A bunch of the Communications staff parked their bicycles in Will's office."

I chuckled. "That's funny." She was right about the job thing, anyway; the draft of the first section of the Inaugural hadn't been half bad. But Will Bailey still stood out as much in the West Wing as he would in a meeting of the Congressional Black Caucus. "And it's still Sam's office," I added.

Donna rolled her eyes. "Karen said you can catch Holcomb on his cell."

I grabbed the receiver. "Thanks." Donna turned and left.

It rang twice. "Scott Holcomb." In the background I could hear a breezy hiss of traffic.

"Hey, Scott, it's Josh." I rolled my chair back and put my feet up on the corner of the desk. "I just thought I'd call and check how the thing in Laguna went."

"It was good," he said. "We ended up running out of hot dogs, but the tofu burgers saved our asses." There was a pause, filled only seconds later by a car horn. "Now if only we could get him to read his speeches as they're written..."

"You might as well give up on that one," I said with a laugh. "You're not gonna win." Sam was always billed as the White House's one great asset on the diplomacy front, but underneath that was the guy who'd threatened to bust Larry Claypool's head like a piñata. "What was your head count?"

"About five hundred."

"Not bad." It was better than a month ago, but the crowds hadn't gotten any bigger for a while. He had a whole whack of strong supporters, but he hadn't made any further inroads with the undecideds. They were going to have to reach out beyond the Mexican-American community soon. "Did you schedule that thing with the veterans?"

"Tom's on that. It'll be just after the first of the year."

"Glad to hear it." I glanced at my watch, shifting the phone to my other ear. "Listen, what I actually wanted to talk to you about was this new ad."

"What about it?" Suspicion edged into his voice. He'd known me long enough to realize I hadn't called to feed him flattery.

I wrapped the phone cord around my finger. "It's not bad. It's just a little...overcautious."

"Overcautious." I could hear him bristling.

"Enough people voted against Webb in November to elect a dead guy. Don't you think you can leverage that a little?"

"What did you have in mind?" His voice was harsh with irritation, but the question was genuine.

I tilted the chair back, stretching the cord tight. "Well, you can start by reminding the good people of the district of what Webb *hasn't* done for them lately. I mean, do they even know what the guy looks like?" I nudged Donna's fax aside with my heel and slid my feet further up on the desk. "And once we're there, we stick it to him on his record. The guy's on the front lines with the whole push to privatize Medicare, and he's never heard the word compromise. He's fought campaign finance reform since the day he was elected. He's a longtime member of the NRA who supported ending the assault rifle ban. I mean, it's not like he hasn't given us plenty of material to work with, here."

"Josh." Holcomb made a noise that was halfway between a growl and a groan. "Okay, nobody wants to run that campaign more than I do. But we can't veer that far left out here. It'd mean disaster for the party."

I sat up straight, and my feet landed on the floor with a thump. "For the party?" I scooted to the edge of my chair. "Are you working for Sam Seaborn for Congress or the OC Dems?"

"It'd mean disaster for this campaign," Holcomb said. A sigh hissed in my ear. "Look, this isn't Connecticut or New York. It's not even the Bay Area. In Orange County we've got to tread a little more lightly."

I leaned in toward the phone, my mouth tightened in frustration. "There's treading lightly and there's running in place."

"Right now we're still on the high road. I want us to stay there as long as we can. Webb is on the defensive without Sam having to take a single swing at him. You've known Sam a long time, right? You must know how he feels about negative ads."

My shoulders slumped. He had a point. I couldn't even count how many times Sam and I had argued about that back in '98.

"Listen. Josh." His voice was forced calm. "I really appreciate everything you've been doing. You've been great. But we're the ones on the ground on this one. You've gotta trust us a little, okay?"

I glanced at my watch again. There really wasn't time for this. I had at least three phone calls to return before the budget hit my desk again.

"We're already planning a contrastive thing for the next ad," Holcomb said. "You'll love it."

His voice had that mock-soothing tone that he got when he was trying to placate somebody, and I glowered into the phone. "You're really gonna want to call Webb on the absenteeism," I tried one last time. "I mean, it's a gift."

"We will. And that intern Sam hired has got some good oppo of her own. We're fine, Josh."

The corner of my mouth quirked. A couple of weeks ago Holcomb had been the one to call me, mad as hell that Sam had hired his own intern. I could just see Sam, all charm and confidence, strutting into the meeting with a 'No, I want this one'. "This is that Elaine?" I asked. "How's she working out?"

"Elena. And she's good. Works hard." There was another horn, and then Holcomb mumbled something I couldn't quite catch. "Hey, I hate to cut you off."

"It's all right, I've got a hundred things to do before..." My voice hit dead air, and I realized he'd already hung up. I held the receiver out in front of me, grimaced, and put it back in its cradle.

The VCR spat out the tape, and I stared at the black screen. A memory flashed across my mind: early morning, a California highway somewhere between a rally in San Diego and a luncheon speech in the L.A. suburbs, Sam's forehead pressed against the window of the campaign bus, his insistence that we stop. A breakfast burrito in one of those San-whatever towns, the grin on his face as he pronounced that it hadn't changed, not in all those years. A ripple of pain twisted around my breastbone.

My mind skittered away from the scene, and I shook it off. They'd go for Webb's jugular soon enough. Holcomb really was one of the best, and he knew what he was doing. A sigh trickled out of my lungs. I fumbled with the knot in my tie, loosening it.

"Okay, either that budget's really getting you down, or you need a nap. I'm betting on the nap."

I glanced up. Donna was in the doorway again, a rolled-up newspaper in her hand. I shoved my shoulders back. "What have you got?"

She plopped the paper onto the desk. Gothic script across the top spelled out San Francisco Chronicle. It was dated two days ago. "Top story in the pre-Christmas edition? Clashes in Gaza." She flipped it over. "Just past the fold? Our boy Sam."

SEABORN RIDES WAVE OF SUPPORT, shouted the headline, and the pages rustled as I spread the paper flat. In a grainy black-and-white photo, Sam stood in the middle of what had to be his campaign office, flanked on each side by a pair of young kids I didn't recognize. His hair had grown out a bit, but he looked good. He looked happy. My smile spread into a grin. This was just how it was supposed to go. It wasn't New York, but maybe this was better.

"It's a good story," Donna said, her voice smug. "Really thorough. Of course, it would be better in the L.A. Times, but it's still kind of fun."

My eyes fell on the byline, and I arched an eyebrow. Carl Harrison didn't write puff pieces. I held the paper up. "As a Democrat in California's predominantly Republican 47th Congressional district, the odds are stacked against Sam Seaborn," I read aloud. "Nevertheless, there are several ways in which Seaborn is giving Charles Webb, the seven-term incumbent, a run for his money." Excitement washed over me, and I slapped the paper back down on the desk. It was all coming together. "This--" I poked a finger at the middle of the photo, just above Sam's chest. "--is fantastic."

Donna's eyebrow quirked. "Okay, is it me, or are you more excited about this than you were about the polling numbers?"

That was the trees. This was the forest. "It's good press." I said, shrugging.

She shook her head. "How is a glowing profile in a San Francisco paper going to help him win a race in Orange County?"

I grinned down at the paper. Sam smiled back at me. "It isn't."

###

SAM: JANUARY 14th, 2003, 4:30 PM

"How's that?" Elena called out from the back of the auditorium.

A row of interrogation lights blinded me, transforming the hall from hazy darkness into pure white. "Aah," I yelped, holding up a hand and edging back against my stool. It groaned, skidding along the surface of the stage. "Okay, I confess! I chopped down the cherry tree!"

The lights dimmed slightly. In the back, up by the switches, I could just make out the outline of Elena's shadow. "Hand over the hatchet and sit up straight," she barked.

Mark poked me in the ribs, and I held up my arms again. His hand snaked up inside my shirt, and he tugged at the microphone, fixing it to the edge. His dark brown hair was clipped short, within an inch of his head, and the spotlight lit up the skin on his bald spot like Times Square on New Year's Eve. The auditorium was mostly empty, but Scott and Tom were watching me from the middle of the second row. A redheaded woman whose name I couldn't remember sat draped over the back of the seat between them, her elbow leaning against the cushion and a bored fist planted on her cheek.

I lowered my hands, clasping them to the back of my head, but it only felt more ridiculous. A mental image of Toby with his hand in the President's shirt tugged at the corner of my mouth, and I stifled a chuckle. "Do you think a shot like this would make me look any more electable than the one of me eating that big cookie?" I whispered to Mark.

"Definitely," he said absently, letting the flap of my shirt drop. He took a step back, his arms folded and his eyes scrutinizing me. "Okay, say something."

My shirt was untucked, one of the buttons was unbuttoned, and all eyes were on me. "General Secretary Gorbachev, if you seek peace, if you seek prosperity for the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe, if you seek liberalization, come here to this gate." I pumped a fist into the air. "Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!"

The words reverberated into the empty hall and then faded into silence. "It's muddy from back here," Elena called out.

I resumed my rag-doll pose, and Mark pulled up my shirt again, clipping the mike a bit higher. One of the volunteers from UC Irvine sprinted from one side of the hall to the other, the end of his tie flapping loosely in front of him. I lowered my hands to my sides, wrapping my fingers around the edge of the wooden stool. "Try again," Mark said.

The lights were warm on my face, and beads of sweat pricked my forehead. "I pledge allegiance. To the flag. Of the United--"

"Much better," Mark said, a satisfied smile on his face.

The corners of my mouth turned up. "I don't think Reagan would have agreed."

He adjusted my lapel with the understated elegance of a butler, and stepped back to examine his handiwork. I tucked my shirt back into my pants, grateful he was blocking the view from most of the rest of them.

The lights dimmed a little more, and I could make out the sloping rows of empty seats reaching all the way to the back of the room. There was something familiar about this whole setup, something that sent memories of arrogant teenage orators and self-important high school competitions tumbling through my mind. "You do realize I haven't done this for twenty years," I said, my voice low enough that it was no more than a rustle through the microphone. "More than that."

Mark shrugged. "Sure."

"That doesn't concern you?"

He shook his head. "You've argued with President Bartlet, and something tells me he's a worthier opponent than Chuck Webb. You'll be fine." He stepped forward and pressed against my shoulder, and I lowered myself onto the stool. Tugging at the lapel on my jacket, he picked up the glass of water from the table and handed it to me.

I raised the glass to him in a toast. "There were never quite so many props in the Oval Office." The water was cool, its single ice cube disappearing rapidly under the hot lights.

Mark stepped off to one side and turned to face the rest of the staff. "All right, how does he look?"

"There's a shiny spot on his forehead," said Elena.

Mark held up a hand. "We'll fix that in makeup. Tie okay?"

The redhead in the third row frowned. "I don't know. The green one was...calmer."

"The red one's brighter," Elena insisted.

The corner of my mouth quirked. "We could dig up a yellow one and stand me up at a crowded intersection."

"It just looks kind of orange under the lights," argued the redhead.

I held out an arm, displaying the trio of invisible ties. "I could bring all three onstage with me and switch them around when I want Webb to stop, go full speed ahead, or..." Mark's back turned to me, and I swallowed the last of the lame joke. No one was listening anyway. I turned the water glass around in my hand, pressing my palm against the condensation.

"Send him out there in faded jeans and a T-shirt, for all I care," Tom dismissed, his voice a growl that could have been Leo's. "He's still going to make Webb look like Nixon."

"Sam would make *Kennedy* look like Nixon." Elena's voice was a little bit amused, a little bit smug.

"Would that be John F., Teddy, or Jackie O?" I shot back.

Scott clapped his hands and pointed two fingers at the stage. "All right, we've got twenty minutes, people. Let's make the best of them."

Mark turned back around and took a step toward me. His tie was loose. "For now I'd say just skip the opening remarks."

"But tonight, how about you actually read the words that were written for you?" Scott called out, leaning toward the stage.

Annoyance gnawed at me, and my eyes narrowed. The speechwriter Mark had hired was competent enough, but he had a penchant for sentence fragments that would have had Toby comparing him to Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man. "You know, I *could* do that part myself." I slapped my forehead with the heel of my palm. "Wait a minute. I *do* do that part myself."

Mark pulled on my jacket again. "Touch your face like that tonight, and you'll get a glob of foundation in the middle of your hand." He stepped over to the other side of the stage, assuming his role as Webb. He sat down on the other wooden stool, identical to mine.

"The first question is for Mr. Seaborn," Scott began. "Education is of vital importance to the people of Orange County. Currently, twelve percent of students in this district receive federal funding under Title IV of the Elementary and Secondary Education Act, which expires next fall. Will you be able to ensure that these kids will get an equal chance at a quality education?"

Mark stood up, holding up a hand to shield his eyes from the lights. "No," he said sharply.

"No?" Scott echoed.

I blinked. "I won't?"

"They're not going to start him off with a softball question like that," Mark insisted. Scott pressed his lips into a line, but ceded the point with an open palm. Mark gestured into the back of the hall with a finger. "Elena."

"In Orange County, roads continue to face growing congestion," came the familiar voice. "If elected, how do you plan to address the need to help reduce rush hour traffic for commuters?"

Eyes on the camera. I glanced across the scattered audience and over to the spot where it would have been. "Well, I understand the need to free people from not only rush hour traffic, but also air pollution and accidents, because I've driven all over this county. I am a strong supporter of mass transit projects which provide commuters with safe, easy, and inexpensive alternatives. I also support the proposed light rail system stretching across Orange County, and the construction of a high-speed train within California."

"Good," Mark said with a nod. "Mr. Seaborn, you and I both know that a light rail project would cost millions, even billions of dollars," he continued, in Webb's words. "Can we really presume to burden the taxpayers with something most of them aren't even going to use?"

Webb had requested this format; he'd wanted a chance to throw me off my game. I couldn't let myself be pushed. I stood. "A recent survey by the Orange County PMG suggests that up to seventy-five percent of commuters in this county would use light rail at least some of the time. There are already plans for more commuter lanes on the 405, and I support that initiative as well. But this county needs more than a stopgap measure. Light rail is the only permanent solution to a problem that's only going to get worse if we don't address it." My eyes met Mark's, and he gave me a slight nod. I sat back down.

"The next question is for Mr. Webb," the redhead behind Scott said. "As a seven-term Congressman, I'm sure you're quite aware of the vast numbers of aging baby boomers and the shrinking pool of social security funds. What will you do to preserve Medicare both now and in the future?"

Mark-as-Webb stood, rattling off Webb's usual line on Social Security, and winding it up with a line about helping to keep the government from nosing around in seniors' purses. He even sounded like the man. I stood again, smirking as I responded. "Unfortunately, relying on private-sector plans would leave many Medicare recipients without adequate coverage. The last thing our seniors need is more privatization. Any effective prescription drug benefit has to address the fact that many seniors live outside of areas that are financially attractive to private insurance companies."

Mark held up a hand to Scott and the others. "Wait. Time out." He stepped toward me. "That was fine, but-- I want you to try something a little more direct. As the challenger, you're at an advantage in this debate, so use it. All you have to do is hold your own. He has more than a decade of decisions to address. Put him on the defensive." He stepped back to Webb's spot and sat down. "Let's try that one again."

I nodded to myself. Mark was right; Webb had plenty to answer for on Medicare. I fixed my eyes on the spot where the camera would have been. "What the Congressman isn't saying here is that this idea isn't just theoretical. He's talking about the Medicare Improvement Act, a ploy to use token support for low income seniors as bait in a strategy to convert Medicare into a private industry using taxpayers' subsidies to pay for it. Mr. Webb may call himself a strong advocate for seniors, but take a look at his record. Medicare privatization has come up four times in the fourteen years he's been in Washington, and four times he voted for the wrong side. He's not interested in prescription drugs for seniors. He's interested in higher profits for the drug companies that donate to his campaign."

"And time." Elena held the stopwatch high from the back of the room. She was beaming at me.

"Good job," Scott acknowledged.

"This is