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 why Webb wanted to have the first debate so early," Tom added. "He wants time to clean up afterward."

"He's scared." Elena's voice was gleeful. "The thug is scared."

Josh had always called Webb a thug, too. I sat back down, picking up my water glass. Toby had called twice in the past week, and Will was talking either to me or to Scott almost every day, but I hadn't heard from Josh in months. I couldn't tell whether the thought was more freeing or more unnerving. I lifted the glass to my lips, sucking back a gulp of cool liquid.

Mark walked toward me. "That was a lot better," he said, pressing my lapel flat again. "But when you sit back down, don't cross your legs." I looked down. My ankles were folded against each other, my knees poking out on either side. I uncrossed them, shoving my shoulders back. Mark headed back to his spot. "Tom," he said, pointing at the second row.

"Mr. Seaborn." Tom's voice was far more intimidating than any L.A. Times reporter's, and even though he was seated, he still towered over the others. "During the President's first campaign in 1998, some Catholic archbishops issued a statement saying that it would be a sin to vote for Bartlet because of his support for abortion rights and stem-cell research. What is your response to that argument?"

Webb's press release had made it clear this one was coming. I tucked my chin in deferentially. "Well, I respect that view. It's a response to a question of personal conscience. I don't agree with it, but I respect it." I turned just a little, my eyes focusing on the space where the camera would have been. "At the same time, I strongly believe that a President can't govern by faith, can't impose his own personal beliefs on people who may or may not share them. I respect President Bartlet for his steadfastness in defending Roe v. Wade, and in supporting new and creative approaches to medical research. If elected to Congress, I will do the same."

Mark zeroed in on me, his eyes like lasers, and I pushed my shoulders back, steeling myself. "Well, I've been a Congressman for fourteen years," he said, "and I've been right there when laws have been made. And I know that moral values are already part of the way we make laws, and that's as it should be. Moral values are the reason we banned slavery. That's why you all deserve a Congressman whose moral values are the same as yours, and whose conscience is clear."

Mark's implication hung in the air: Laurie. The tension in the room edged higher, like the volume on a stereo, and for a long moment everyone was still. Anxiety was building in my shoulders, pressing downward to my spine. They were all watching.

"Those laws we've made based on moral values also give people the right to drink alcohol, or have racist thoughts, or own a gun," I began. "It's about the right to privacy." I reached back through the haze of memory to an argument I'd once had with a would-be Supreme Court Justice named Harrison. "That right is one of this country's core values. And if we make radical new laws that take away the control women have over their own bodies, we lose one of the fundamental things that makes us Americans."

There was a collective sigh of relief. Scott stood, nodding, and walked toward the stage. "Good," he said.

The pressure eased in my back, but my heart was still pounding. "It was okay?"

"He'll try to slide it in sideways like that, try to get *you* to make it an issue," he said, leaning against the stage and looking up at me with an outstretched finger. "But don't take the bait. If he doesn't bring her up, don't you do it, either."

Mark stepped toward me, a fist at his waist. "If he does say something more on-point, then you can hit him back with the question of relevance. He's bringing up a non-issue. You've deflected this one so far, and you can do it in the debate."

"Just don't let him put you on the defensive," Scott said. "You have only one position on this issue, and that's that you have nothing to defend."

She's a person, not an issue, I wanted to say. I reached down and took another sip of my water, swallowing back the sour lump on my tongue. I couldn't help but wonder what all this was doing to Laurie. My last Google search had told me she was an associate now at a small firm up in Boston, and the last thing she probably needed was this constant reminder of her past. But Webb had been wanting to get into it with me on Laurie since the beginning of the campaign, and this would be the first time he and I would be in the same room. I sat up straight on the stool, lifting my chin in what I hoped looked like confidence.

"It's five o'clock," yelled Elena.

The seven or eight people in the room all stood, and Tom made his way toward the stage, standing tall over Scott. One of the student volunteers grabbed Mark's table and stool, carrying them offstage, and Mark headed toward me, a smile on his face. I lifted an eyebrow at him, but I couldn't tell whether it was a smile of confidence or the kind you give you candidate to boost his ego on the night of a debate. I slid off the stool and stepped toward him.

"You sound great," Mark said, his voice even. "Nothing high-school about you."

I nodded. "Thanks." With the way the papers had been reprinting my senior picture, some of the audience would probably be expecting an eighteen-year-old kid. Mark opened his mouth, but nothing came out, as if he'd thought better of it. A wrinkle formed between my eyebrows. "What?"

He drew in a breath through his nose, his mouth a grim line. "Some things probably aren't going to go all that well. They might not even go as well as they went here. And...you know this, but it happens to the most experienced of candidates, so I'm going to say it again." His eyes bored into mine. "Move on. Don't get bogged down in over-explaining. It's the kiss of death."

He nudged at my ribs again, and I lifted my arms into the rag-doll pose and let him remove the mike from my shirt. I swallowed. No death-kissing for me.

"The red tie really is better, by the way." I didn't turn my head, but the voice was Elena's. "It's got more snap to it."

I cocked an eyebrow at her. "What about the crackle and pop?"

She walked around until she was standing directly next to Mark, her green eyes staring up at me. "Do you want me to pour milk over your head?" she said with a smirk. "'Cause that can be arranged."

I let go of a chuckle, and with it a breath of tension. I gave Elena a grateful smile as Mark jerked the microphone loose. My arms fell to my sides, and I straightened my tie as he wandered off.

"Thanks for your help, by the way," I said, lowering my voice. "Mark's great, but..."

"He doesn't know the local context." She gave me a flash of white teeth, and reached around to grab my stool and the water glass. "You should probably know, though, I'm just angling for a job in your district office," she said in conspiratorial whisper.

I watched her as she tucked the stool under an arm and carried it offstage, my smile widening into a grin. Nervous tension pulsed through my veins, but the thought reverberated inside my head, poking at the edges of my thoughts. My district office.

###

JOSH: JANUARY 14th, 2003, 8:04 PM

The East Room was a sea of black and white tuxedos with occasional splashes of color from the women's dresses. A string quartet whined just loudly enough to be heard over the murmurs of conversation and the clinking of wine glasses. It was 5:00 in California; just another three hours, now. Though it had been at least three weeks since I'd last heard from Holcomb, so God only knew what was going on out there. The bowtie at my throat pressed against my Adam's apple, and I pulled on it.

"Joshua Lyman."

It was a woman's voice, Southern. I turned around. Senator Carla Ramsey's white hair was piled high on her head, and she was wearing a purple gown with one of those dramatic scarves that would have made any of the other women in this town look like a mating flamingo. I smiled. "Good evening, Senator."

Her hand was warm and dry, and the air around her was light with a faint hint of perfume. "I'm so sorry about the foreign aid bill." She frowned, the wrinkles at the corners of her mouth deepening. "It's downright embarrassing when these things make it out of committee and all the way through the House, only to die on our table."

I tilted the heel of my glass at her. "That sounds like a date I had once."

Her frown dissolved into laughter, and she brushed a hand against my arm. "You know, that's what I love about you, Josh. You can always see the light of humor in the darkest of moments."

Ice rattled around in my whiskey, melting into the caramel liquid. "Temporary setback," I said, giving her a shrug. "And next time we'll know who's really on our side." The corners of her eyes relaxed. She'd voted for it, but I knew there was a part of her that was relieved she wouldn't have to explain to the good people of North Carolina why poor Africans needed this money more than working Americans.

"Ah, yes, but it shouldn't have happened that way." She twisted her wrist, brandishing her wine glass at me. "There are just too many Republicans in the Senate."

The Democrats had been the ones who'd kept it from passing, but there was a time and place to bring that up, and it wasn't here, and it wasn't now. "There certainly are, Senator," I agreed.

"Too many in the House, too." Red wine met her mouth as she took a sip. "Although there might be one fewer if our friend Sam can unseat Chuck Webb."

My mind flashed back to the blog entry that had been open on my screen for most of the afternoon. A ripple of discomfort tickled the back of my neck. Things were sounding tense out there. I held up my glass. "I'll drink to that."

The Senator nodded, and her eyes flicked over to Victor Campos. "Oh, there's Victor," she said, her voice light. She turned back to me. "I'm sorry, but I should catch him before he gets too embroiled."

I held up a hand. "Good to see you, Senator."

She tossed her scarf over her shoulder like a boa, and then she was gone in a flourish of fabric and perfume. My cell phone vibrated against my chest, and I reached inside my jacket to pull it out. Donna's name flashed against the tiny screen. I held it up to my ear. "Hey."

There was a pop of static in place of a greeting. "The file for the sewage bill is on your desk."

The murmurs of the crowd seemed to grow louder, and I turned away from the noise, cupping my hand around my ear. "After what happened yesterday with the coffee and the sandwich, I wouldn't use 'sewage' and 'your desk' in the same sentence."

She ignored me. "I'm heading out."

"It's only eight o'clock."

"Yes, and I'm going home." Her voice was sour. "Because some of us didn't get invited to a fancy party in the East Room tonight, and others of us might want to show a little sympathy about that."

Amy gave me a wave from behind a few dozen tuxedoes. Her dress was green, new, and tight. I waved back. "This party is a show of appreciation for major donors to the Democratic Party, Donna. How much did you give this year?"

"Good night, Josh."

"Hey, listen," I said quickly. "You know that guy, uh, Buffkin? The one who's been writing about Sam's campaign in his blog?"

There was another crackle of static, but she didn't hang up. "Don't you think that's kind of a dumb word?" she said eventually.

"Buffkin?" Behind me there was a loud crack of laughter, and I flexed my hand against the phone, edging further toward the corner of the room. "Yeah, a little."

"It sounds like a 60s sci-fi movie. The Blog, it crawls, it creeps, it eats you alive!"

I set my glass down on one of the high tables lining the walls. "It's short for 'weblog.'"

"Or maybe a cat throwing up a hairball."

I made a face. "You know, your tax dollars are paying for this phone call."

"Right."

I leaned an elbow against the table, turning so that I could see the whole room while I talked. "So it turns out Buffkin is actually working for Sam's campaign. Low-level research and stuff. Which, you know, it makes sense, 'cause there's no way he'd get the kind of up-close detail he's been posting without some internal connection."

"How do you know all this?" Donna's voice was incredulous. "Wait, how do you even know the guy's name is Buffkin? Isn't he writing under some weird Internet name like the Daily Orange or--"

"Orange-A-Day," I corrected. I raised my glass to my mouth, letting a cool trickle of whiskey pour out onto my tongue. "I talked to Jeff Hartwin from the OC Dems, and he put me in touch with a girl who's doing some part-time stuff for the campaign. She said Buffkin's the guy."

A groan sounded against my ear. "You know, you're going to get caught, Josh."

"Right," I said, scoffing. "And then they'll charge me with making a couple of phone calls, and lock me up and throw away the key." I threw my shoulders back, but a vision of Sam's angry face crept into my mind, and I swallowed, clamping down on the thought. He wouldn't find out. "So anyway, this afternoon, Buffkin writes that it looks like the President might not be coming out to California in February after all."

"So?"

"That doesn't sound a little fishy to you?"

The music stopped for a moment, and there was a smattering of applause throughout the room. "Maybe the visit's been postponed," Donna said.

I shook my head. "Toby says we're going. Leo says we're going. Hell, the President says we're going. I talked to him about it yesterday."

"Well, maybe Mr. Blog is wrong." Her voice rose in mild annoyance. "Come on, Josh, he's just a guy with a cable modem and too much time on his hands."

"Yeah," I said. I pressed my lips into a frown. It wasn't just the blog post, it was the way Holcomb was shying away from letting Sam really take Webb on, it was the way he wouldn't return my phone calls. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but something wasn't right. "So the file is on my desk?" I leaned back against the wall, pressing my spine against it.

"Right in the middle."

"Thanks."

"Sure."

My phone jostled against the inside of my breast pocket as I slid it back inside. The strings started up again, reverberating off the edges of the room, and the doors to the kitchen swung open. A young guy in a jacket and tails came out with a fresh bucket of ice for the bar. Leaning against the table closest to the bar, was Will Bailey. I picked up my drink again, taking another sip, pushed off the wall, and headed toward him. Donna'd insisted he was a nice guy. I could at least say hello.

The guy hardly had to bend down to lean an elbow against the table. His forehead was creased, and he was staring off into space, lost in thought. The corner of my mouth quirked. It was the same look Sam had always gotten whenever he was working on something he couldn't shake.

I bent down to meet his eyes, nudging a pair of wine glasses out of the way with a forearm. "So, you're writing?"

Bailey's eyes snapped into focus. He blinked. "Writing?"

"Just now, you were writing." Puzzled wrinkles creased his forehead. "You know, in your head," I added. I stood up straight again. "I thought-- isn't that what writers do?"

"No," he said, a look of confusion clouding his eyes behind his glasses. "I mean...usually there's paper and a pen involved. Or at least a laptop with a screen too small for Toby to stare at over my shoulder."

"Okay."

Bailey glanced down at his wine glass and straightened, shrugging his shoulders back. "He just sent me down here. He said one of us had to make an appearance, and I was the one who still had a tux in my office. From the thing at the State Department last week." He turned the glass over in his hand and took a sip. "I'm pretty sure he was just trying to get me out of his face."

"You're still working on the Inaugural?" I asked. I let my eyes widen with mock incredulity. "You do know the thing's in six days, right?"

The color drained from Bailey's face, and he cleared his throat. "You know, actually, I should really head back to my--"

"Hey, relax." I leaned across the table and put a hand on his shoulder. "Sam and Toby didn't have a full draft until the day before, either."

He shook his head. "So, just now, you were kidding?"

I shrugged. "Yeah."

"Do you know that when you're kidding, your voice sounds exactly the same as when you're serious?"

A grin stretched the edges of my mouth. "So they tell me."

Bailey swirled his wine, looking up at me. "Actually, I was just thinking about how things were going in California."

The sudden mention startled me, and I felt weirdly exposed. I hid my face in my drink. "California?" I mumbled against my glass.

"With the special election." He shrugged. "That campaign was my whole life for almost a year. And the first debate's tonight."

I rocked back on one leg. "Yeah?"

"I've got a guy taping it for me. I won't get to watch until after the...you know." A fleeting look of discomfort folded across his forehead, and his eyes wandered over to the door. "But it should be a pretty good show."

The VCR in my office was hooked up to the White House satellite feed, and I wouldn't be waiting until after the Inaugural. "Sam's gonna mop the floor with him," I said, thrusting my chin in the air. But nerves still pricked the back of my neck, and I wondered what Holcomb was doing right now.

"I guess they're really running him ragged out there. " He gestured over his shoulder with a thumb. "I was just talking to Governor Tillman."

I threw a glance in the direction of Bailey's thumb. "You know the Governor of California?" The Governor was leaning over, his face close to the ear of a blonde woman I didn't recognize. He had dark hair and a square jaw, and his face was trapped in a perpetual grin that had gotten all the late-night comedians calling him Guy Smiley.

"Well, yeah," Bailey said with a shrug. "I mean, a little."

I slid my glass against my lips again. This guy was full of surprises. "Okay."

"He said Scott Holcomb had cancelled two meetings between him and Sam, so I guess Sam's campaign schedule must be pretty packed."

All the nerves in my body stood at attention. I'd never heard of a Congressional candidate being too busy to meet with the governor of the state he was running in. "That's a little...weird," I said carefully.

Bailey tilted his head toward me. "I guess it is," he acknowledged.

The music swelled, and I glanced around the room, taking another sip of whiskey. My mind was racing. Early on, Holcomb had talked non-stop about getting the Governor down to Orange County to campaign, and now he was cancelling meetings? "Did Tillman ever do an appearance with Wilde?"

Another shrug. "He came to the funeral."

"How about while he was still alive?"

"The Governor introduced him once. One of the rallies we did at Newport Harbor. It brought in a few hundred extra bodies, which was a pretty big deal at the time."

I frowned into my drink. Maybe if I tried Holcomb on his cell again, he'd actually pick up the phone this time. A pressure in my chest edged out the thought. By now, there was enough reason to believe I couldn't trust him even if I did get him on the line. "Do you know if he's gonna do an appearance with Sam?"

"I doubt it," he said, shaking his head.

"How come?"

Bailey's eyebrow quirked. "Well, it's just a guess, but if Holcomb won't put them in the same room, I doubt Tillman's going to be campaigning for Sam. Unless that expensive new videoconferencing software is involved."

A fake laugh fell out of my mouth in a short burst. "Yeah." I slid my hand around the other side of the glass, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. The Governor had a little sandwich in his hand now. He was still smiling. "Don't you wonder why Holcomb would do that?"

"Do what?"

I slid my glance back over to Bailey. "Keep the Governor away from Sam."

He tilted his head back. "I guess."

"I mean, the Governor's pretty popular. I hear he does pretty well for himself in Orange County."

"Better in the 48th than the 47th," he said, his eyes narrowing a little behind his glasses.

"Still. It's Orange County and the man's a Democrat and they haven't run him out of town yet." I planted an arm on the table and leaned against it. "You'd think they'd want to use him."

"You'd think." Bailey's voice was level.

The silence was filled by the low hum of crowd noise and the strains of a violin. Frustration seared my stomach, but Bailey shot a nonchalant glance around the room and seemed very preoccupied with his wine. I turned a little to get a better look at the Governor. He was standing with Senator Avery now, that same smile plastered on his face. "I wonder if that January suntan is real or bottled?" I tried to keep my voice light, but couldn't keep an edge of desperation from slicing through it.

Bailey didn't even look over at him. "Oh, it's real. They say he surfs."

I gestured in the Governor's direction. "Maybe you should go back and ask him if he's spent any time on the beach lately. Or, ah, you know." I clanked the ice up against the side of my glass and took another sip. "If he's planning on it."

Bailey's eyes were fixed on me now, staring. "You know, if you want me to talk to the Governor of California about doing an appearance with Sam, all you have to do is ask."

I rocked back again on one foot, my fingers fidgeting against my glass. Bailey tilted his head toward the Governor, questioning, and I shrugged. Bailey sniffed, a hint of a smirk creasing the corner of his mouth. He set his wine glass down, smoothed the lapel of his jacket, and stalked over there.

I tried to look away from them, but my gaze was pulled toward them like a magnet. Bailey's back was to me, but I could see his animated gestures and the thoughtful look on Guy Smiley's face. The words from the Orange-A-Day blog churned through my mind, and I thrust my shoulders back to shake them off. The tightness around my collar was back. I straightened my bowtie.

Bailey turned far enough that I could see the smile on his face, and the Governor placed a hand on his arm. Bailey broke away, heading back toward me. I turned my back to him, fixing my eyes on the wall. An enormous portrait of George Washington stared back at me. I leaned against the table.

Bailey walked around to the opposite side of the table, his head right at Washington's waist. "He says the campaign hasn't asked him."

My eyebrows shot up. That wasn't anything like Holcomb. Something was definitely up.

"He also says he'd be willing if they did ask," he added.

I nodded. "Well...good."

Bailey gave me another long stare, and then turned away. Two steps from the table, he spun back around. "Okay, was that a hazing thing?"

"A what?"

"You know, like the bicycles, or the Seaborn for Congress posters. Or the goat."

"There was a goat?" A grin spread across my face, but Bailey glared at me, and I swallowed it back again, meeting his eyes. "Okay, no, look. I swear, I'm not hazing you." I lifted a hand in reassurance. "And I don't know anything about any goats, either. I was just curious."

Bailey's face was completely blank, but from behind his glasses he was squinting at me, as if trying to snap me into focus.

"So, ah, thanks," I added.

"You're welcome." He turned on his heels, his back to me like a retreating soldier. I watched him as he walked toward the door, smiling and waving at a few familiar faces, and then disappeared into the hallway.

I glanced at my watch again. Still a little over two and a half hours to the debate. Sam would be getting a feel for the hall right about now, talking to his staff, maybe going over his opening statement.

He was terrific in a debate. But with a campaign manager who was ignoring all reasonable strategy, anything could happen.

I tilted my glass into the air, drained what was left of my drink, and set it down on the table.

###

SAM: JANUARY 14th, 2003, 7:55 PM

The tiny green room was cramped with campaign staff, and too many simultaneous conversations tugged at my temples. Jimmy Buffkin was standing in the doorway, his tie just a little too long against his skinny frame. "Five minutes to go," he said.

I swallowed. It sounded like an eternity, it sounded like no time at all. The hard wooden chair pressed against the small of my back, and the stylist gave my hair another swipe, pushing it out of my eyes. "Thanks," I managed.

"Uh, your mom's out here," Jimmy continued, throwing a look out into the hall. "Did you want to talk to her before you go on?"

I grimaced. I couldn't, not right now. I lifted my eyes at Mark, who was standing guard behind my chair. "Tell her we're dealing with some last-minute strategy," he said, a note of authority in his voice. He looked back at me and smiled. "He'll talk to her after he wins." Jimmy nodded and shut the door behind him.

Scott was huddled in the corner with Elena, Tom was shouting into a cell phone a couple of feet from them, and half a dozen others were shuffling papers, whispering concerns. It was all noise to me now, and I drew inside myself to shut it out. 650,000 some-odd constituents, and a good chunk of them would be watching tonight. The newspapers were painting this as a showdown straight out of the Wild West; the tough guy and the upstart kid. Sweat pricked my palms, and I rubbed them against my pants.

Mark crouched down next to me, reaching out a hand to adjust my tie. "You know who gets really bad last-minute stage fright before a debate?" he said, keeping his voice low. "Senator Jenkins. She's fine right up until the last fifteen minutes, and then it hits her. She's done this a million times by now, but it still gets to her."

My throat felt dry, and I glanced around for a glass of water. "It's that obvious?" I asked quietly.

Mark shrugged. "Not at all. I just figured." He smoothed a wrinkle from the lapel of my suit and leaned in closer. "The thing is to use it. If you can ride that wave instead of letting it tip you over, it can be just what you need."

The corner of my mouth quirked at his attempt at a sailing metaphor. The only wave I'd managed to ride since coming back to California had been at the fundraiser on Jack and Martha Henley's yacht. "I'll keep it in mind," I said, glancing down at my hands. Tension had wound itself around them like a spring, and my knuckles were pale. I frowned. "You know, more people watch Capitol Beat than Congressional debates."

"Yeah, but when you're on Capitol Beat, you're talking about the President. This time it's all about you."

I looked up at him, and managed a crooked smile. "Yeah."

Fatigue pulled at the tiny wrinkles around his eyes. None of us had slept much for the past few days. "You know, I'm not going to tell you this isn't a big deal, 'cause we both know it'd be a lie. But all you can do is go in there and give it everything you've got." He tilted his head at me. "I happen to think that's going to be enough, but what do I know? I'm just the communications guy."

He tried to keep a straight face, but a smile was dancing on the edge of his mouth. I leaned back, staring at him, and then we both burst out laughing, a round, full sound pulled from deep in our lungs. The top layer of my nervous tension shriveled up and blew away, and I replaced it with a long breath. Tom slid his cell phone into his breast pocket and eyed us both. "Something you'd care to share?"

"I take the fifth," I said, holding up a hand. "Communications-guy privilege."

The door slid open again. "You're up, Sam," Jimmy said.

I glanced up at Mark, then over to Tom, and then finally to Scott. They all wore identical weary smiles. "Go get 'em," Mark said, giving my arm a cuff with a half-formed fist.

I headed through the doorway, the three of them marching in battle formation behind me. The faint smell of mold in the hallway mingled with the stench of fresh sweat. At the edge of the curtain, I hesitated. The row of lights shining on the stage swelled, and Mark's hand came to a rest on my shoulder, holding me steady.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let us please welcome Congressman Charles Webb and Mr. Samuel Seaborn."

There was a swell of applause, and I headed out onto the stage. The lights were hot on my face, and I held up a hand in greeting as I allowed myself to scan the audience. Every seat in the auditorium was filled, white faces and Latino faces lined up in rows like crayons in a box. I stole a glance at Webb. He flashed his perfect white teeth as he waved at the audience.

We met in the middle. He was taller than I'd remembered, his jaw square and solid. Up close the stage makeup gave him an eerie, jaundiced look, like some sort of fairy-tale monster. He towered over me, his hand grabbing hold of mine, his eyes sizing me up. A sense of vertigo gripped me, and I rocked back on one leg, my gaze faltering. This wasn't just roleplaying anymore. This was me against a seven-term Congressman.

The first few rows of seats had been removed, replaced by a raised platform for the three panelists. Rebecca Overstreet's clipped blonde curls and sly smile were familiar--I'd known the L.A. Times reporter from her short stint in the White House Press Corps--and the other two were local news personalities. I walked over to the stool on my side of the stage, smiling out at the crowd as I sat down on it. Back straight, check. Legs uncrossed, check. The glass was cool against my palm as I reached for it.

Overstreet rattled off the customary introductions and then laid out the procedure. We would each follow our opening and closing statements by three-part questions, which would consist of a ninety-second answer, a sixty-second rebuttal, and a thirty-second response to the rebuttal. As she reminded the audience to hold all applause until the end, my gaze slid over to Webb. I'd seen him dozens of times on Capitol Hill, but tonight he looked like a football hero or a rock star. The kind of guy this crowd might just want to clap for.

Webb's opening statement rolled past me unheard. I ran every practice session we'd had through my mind, Mark's reminders colliding against each other until they were all a bland mass of words. At the end, Overstreet nodded at me. "And now we'll hear from Mr. Seaborn."

The microphone was poking at my chest under my shirt. I stood, barely feeling my feet, and looked straight into the camera. "Orange County has a lot to be proud of," I said, reciting the half-baked words from memory. "In terms of goods produced, we're the tenth-largest country in the world. We have enormous prosperity." My eyes flicked over to the teleprompter, and I shot an internal grimace at the cliché in the next sentence, remembering Scott's admonishments about reading things as they were written. "But we're at a fork in the road," I continued. "Will we use that prosperity to enrich the families who have been left behind, or will we concentrate it in the hands of a few? The obligation of a Congressman is not to his colleagues in Washington, but to the people of his district. Not to some of them, not to half of them, but to all of them."

I paused for a moment, looking out over the audience. I couldn't look at Webb, but his patented smug look appeared in my mind, and heat poured down my brow. I inhaled a breath and looked back at the camera.

"I will be a Congressman who fights for all of you, from the small business owner to the young mother in Laguna Canyon struggling to pay taxes, make car payments, and raise her children. Throughout my career in public service, I have fought for the men and women of this country. Middle-class families. Hardworking people." Rain Man, I heard Toby hiss inside my head. I swallowed. Focus. "This race is about change," I continued, my voice rising. "It's about a choice for the people of this district. When you choose me as your Congressman, you're choosing a fresh start. And I am here to ask for your support."

Overstreet's expression was blank, but her head was ducked down, giving her an unimpressed air. I felt strange in my skin, like I was floating overhead, watching myself sit back down. How weird it felt to sell myself like this, and it hadn't been a great beginning. I chewed at the flesh inside my lip. Move on, Mark had said.

The guy from KOCE--Jeremy Hollander--leaned in toward his table mike, his mouth disappearing behind his moustache. "The first question is for Congressman Webb. Health insurance costs have risen over thirty percent in the past three years, and hardest hit have been seniors. If elected, what would you do to lessen this burden for the large number of district residents over the age of sixty-five?"

I could answer this one in my sleep, but so could Webb. The Congressman's smile was practiced as he looked out at the camera. "Well, Jeremy, I'm a strong supporter of what we call health savings accounts for seniors. You get to take the money you currently spend on a high-cost traditional health plan and split it, putting a portion toward a low-cost, high-deductible policy and depositing the balance into a tax-free health savings account. It's an IRA for medical expenses. And it's the best way to make sure seniors are actually involved with the decision-making process on health care."

Overstreet leaned in toward the mike. "Mr. Seaborn, you have sixty seconds."

I stood, forcing my shoulders back. "When it comes to healthcare, my opponent and I present you with a choice between support for seniors and privatizing Medicare."

My words were strong enough, but my voice was tentative. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Webb toss his head back, barely suppressing a smile. He was enjoying this.

Anger pinched my throat, and I let my own words from the last prep session tumble through my mind. "My opponent has been confronted with this choice four times in the fourteen years he's been in Washington. Four separate bills have gone before Congress in those fourteen years that have pitted support for seniors against increased privatization, and four times he's let the seniors down. I'm talking about Betty Johnstone, a resident of Leisure World, who talked to me about the soaring cost of prescription drugs. I'm talking about Harold Henderson, who lived in Hacienda de las Palmas until his son realized he couldn't afford both the monthly fee and the cost of his father's chemotherapy. This is an issue that hits Orange County right at its very core." A surge of pride shot through me: I'd remembered their names. I stood taller, my eyes still focused on the camera. "As your Congressman, I won't stand with the small cadre of Washington politicians who want to convert Medicare into a private industry. Instead, I offer alternatives that will provide coverage for every citizen of this county, every citizen of this country."

Webb gave me a combative look as he stood. He was ready for this, and he had no intention of yielding even the slightest edge. "When it comes to health care, Mr. Seaborn and I have a very basic difference of opinion. He thinks the federal government should be more involved in running health care in this country, and I trust the American people to make their own decisions. Government-run health means less choice, longer waiting time for needed procedures. Our health-care system is the best in the world, but that's only because we put medical decisions in the hands of doctors and patients instead of in the hands of Washington bureaucrats." I tore my eyes away from Webb and scanned the audience. A ripple of nods swept through the room, and I dug my nails into my palm.

Tim Sadowski--the guy from the OC Register--grabbed the base of the microphone as he leaned toward it. "The next question is for Mr. Seaborn. South County residents enjoy lower rates of violent crime than elsewhere in Orange County, but gang violence in particular still remains a problem. If elected, what would you do to reduce violent crime among our youth?"

My mind reached back to a woman I'd spoken with two weeks ago. Her oldest son had been murdered by his own gang, left to die in the streets. There were so many people tucked into their safe little worlds who'd thought it couldn't happen here. I filled my lungs and stood. "I think we're all more than aware how depleted and overloaded our current force is. The top priority has to be putting more police on the street."

A few scattered nods resonated throughout the audience, and I stood taller. I'd answered from the heart, and they'd still liked what they'd heard.

I squared my jaw and continued. "In my work in the nation's capital, I've seen communities where they've put police officers in schools where kids carry weapons, to get the knives and guns out. It's worked in other places, and it could work here. We also need to encourage training of the next generation of police officers by offering college scholarships to young men and women who are willing to go into the profession. It's long-term measures like these that can actually have a real effect on the crime rate."

Overstreet nodded toward me, then turned to Webb. "Congressman, you have sixty seconds for rebuttal."

Webb's eyebrows were flat across his face, and he rattled off an answer about drugs being the real problem to cutting down on gang violence. Annoyance nipped at the back of my neck. This was sheer opportunism; crime had never been a priority for Webb. But he sounded sincere, and worse, he sounded strong. Next to this, my own issues with the Republicans' drug policies were going to make me look spineless. A half-dozen potential responses shot through my mind, but they all sounded defensive.

"Mr. Seaborn, thirty seconds."

My throat was desert-dry. "Well, I'm glad to hear that the Congressman is in favor of increasing funding for police on the street," I began. "But I also think it's fair to ask him why it is, then, that the current force has shrunk by one-third on his watch."

Webb's eyes met mine in a glare, and suddenly I felt lighter. There was no one nodding now, but I could feel the room with me, their eyes fixed on me in rapt attention and silent support. My skin crackled with adrenaline. This was it: the rhythm I'd felt before in interviews, in front of a television audience. I grabbed it.

"There are many ways to address Orange County's drug problem," I continued. "First, we need a twenty-five percent increase in street officers. Second, we need to improve both education and treatment. Many first-time drug offenders are currently sent immediately off to prison, where we turn them into career criminals. And third, we need to reintroduce drug treatment for everyone who needs it. In the last fourteen years, funding has been cut by more than twenty percent on both the state and local levels, and entry into drug treatment programs has become increasingly more difficult. As your Congressman, I would reverse that trend."

There was another ripple of nodding in the audience. It was slower, more hesitant, but I had them, and the last vestiges of my nervousness evaporated into the air. Webb's eyes bored into the side of my head. I took a sip of water as I sat down.

Overstreet turned toward me, and her eyes held mine for a long moment before turning back to the camera. "The panel's next question is for Congressman Webb. You've suggested that your opponent has character flaws and a personal history that would make him a poor Congressman. Do you really believe that?"

The question chilled me. This wasn't the indirect maneuver we'd prepared for. In all of Webb's subtle but steady pounding, no member of the fourth estate had asked anything this direct.

Webb stood, smiling at Overstreet out of the corner of his mouth as if to thank her for the gift. "I'm not saying that Mr. Seaborn isn't *fit* to be a Congressman. I'm just saying that we have the right to observe that he's made bad judgments." He chuckled, his voice bright and almost sinister in the formal atmosphere. "I mean, it's not exactly a smart move to get, uh, entangled with a lady of the night."

A collective gasp rose up from the audience, and shock ripped through me like a knife's edge. Webb had just cleared that invisible line by a mile.

Webb's smile twisted into a frown, and then disappeared. He rocked back on one foot. "What I mean to say is that-- of course I don't mean to imply that Mr. Seaborn-- that there was anything...between him and the young woman. I just think that we have a right to-- that we have an obligation to--"

"Your time is up," Overstreet said, cutting him off, and rage coiled in my throat like a compressed spring. Webb grabbed his water, and it sloshed awkwardly as he fumbled with the glass. "Mr. Seaborn, you have sixty seconds."

I stood. The muscles in my arms tensed, and I wanted to strike out at him, physically, viscerally. I swallowed it back, letting the stage lights bathe my face in heat. I wasn't going to rant at him. I was going to destroy him.

"Congressman, I think the people of Orange County are more concerned about their kids' futures than a few pictures in a tabloid." My voice was level, my aim precise. "But I agree that character is important, so here's the kind of person I am." I turned toward the audience. "I don't run away from my friends when they make mistakes, I stay and fight. I don't run away from my principles when things get tough, I stay and fight. I don't abandon my friends, and I won't abandon you."

A low murmur of approval broke the silence, followed by scattered applause and a surge of muttering. "Quiet, please," Overstreet said into the microphone, but the sound swelled to a crest, and a flicker of amusement spread across her face before disappearing. "The audience is instructed to hold their applause until the end of the debate," she reminded them.

In a flash of an instant, I realized I'd grabbed onto the reins. The audience had stopped applauding, but they were leaning in toward each other each other, exchanging excited whispers. Webb's face was a mixture of frustration and disappointment, and energy pulsed through me, lifting me up, leaving me weightless.

The rest of the debate was a blur of questions and adrenaline-charged responses, words tumbling over each other like currents of a steady stream. Afterward, Webb gave my hand the customary shake, but the look on his face was pained. The applause swelled again as I left the stage, and a jolt of pure freedom rocked me, my heart expanding to fill the whole room.

Shouts of excitement greeted me as I stepped offstage, and Elena tackled me in a hug, her face against my chest. I glanced down at her, and then back up at Mark, who wore a grin almost too big for his face. "Is this gratitude, or are you trying to crush me?" I said to the top of Elena's head.

Mark slapped a hand on my arm. "You wanna make a bet on tomorrow's sound bite? 'I don't abandon my friends, and I won't abandon you'." His voice was strong, proud.

"Webb dug his own grave on that one," I insisted, shaking my head.

Tom looked down on all of us, his smile wide enough to match Mark's. "He may have handed you the shovel, but the digging was all your doing."

Scott gave me a nod, the stress in his face edged out by relief. "Great job, Sam."

I grinned at all of them and pulled Elena toward me in a bear hug, engulfed by the warmth of my team. It was just the first debate, and there was more than a month left to go in the campaign, but for now I felt ready for anything.

###

JOSH: JANUARY 22nd, 2003: 2:10 PM

"Excuse me, Mr. Lyman?" Stadler's secretary was a perky blonde with a pair of tortoiseshell glasses and a smile that was all teeth. I stood, setting my copy of the Post down against the flat arm of the chair. "I'm so sorry to keep you waiting," she said. "The Congressman is running a little late. It's going to be about another fifteen minutes."

Five minutes into the term, and he was already behind. I held up a hand. "It's all right."

"Did you need a cup of coffee, or maybe some sparkling water?" She flashed another smile.

I shook my head, sitting back down. It had only been a ten minute wait, but the chairs in Stadler's office were making it feel more like an hour. Dark wood and imposing lines only got you so far, and he'd clearly forgotten that furniture was meant for people to sit on. "I'm fine."

She walked back into the inner office, and I flipped the newspaper over. It was filled with profiles on some of the new Congressmen, a few bits about the budget, and some fluff about the start of the President's second term. Fifteen more minutes would be enough time to call the Buffkin kid again, though. I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and paged through the phone book to B.

It rang four times. "Hello?"

"Hey, it's Josh Lyman. You got a few minutes?" The first time I'd called, I'd tacked on 'from the White House,' and the kid had just about fallen over, but I was going for familiarity at this point.

There was a short silence. "Mr. Lyman! Uh, sure. Let me just..." A rustling sound came across the line, followed by a beep, and then some banging. I shifted in the chair again, leaning toward the door that led out into the hall. "Okay," Buffkin said finally, breathless. "I can talk."

I ran a fingernail along the grain in the chair's arm. "Don't tell me. You were building a fort over there."

"I just wanted to make sure we wouldn't be interrupted."

My lip curled into a smirk. I'd worked on campaigns at his age, too, but I'd never been quite that young. "Hey, I loved your last post."

"Yeah?" The kid's voice turned up. "Which one did you see?"

I grabbed my BlackBerry out of my jacket pocket, switching it on. "The one on, ah..." I clicked around on the screen, pulling up the Orange-A-Day website. "The rally in Laguna Beach."

"You liked that?" His words were clipped, excited. "You know, I actually worked pretty hard on that one, but I didn't get very many comments, and I was starting to think maybe my audience was starting to get sick of campaign--"

"No, no, it was great." I clicked the BlackBerry off again and shoved it back into my jacket pocket. "It, ah, really made me feel like I was right there."

"That's just what I was going for. My roommate said maybe it was a little over-the-top, like, with all the present tense and everything, but I really wanted to make people feel like they were a part of it, you know?"

"You did a great job," I assured him. Stadler's secretary shot me a glance from the inner office, and I turned away, curling myself around the phone. "I hear you guys got some internals from Joey Lucas last night?" I said, lowering my voice.

"Yeah. Mr. Holcomb and Mr. Baker have been holed up all morning. I guess they're trying to figure out what's next." The kid's voice was heavy.

I braced myself against the back of the chair. "How bad is it?"

"Well," he hesitated. "I really shouldn't-- but I guess since you're Mr. Holcomb's friend."

"I don't want to bother him. I know he's got to be pretty busy."

"Well, he's gonna be even busier now. Sam's down four. Six from the one right after the debate."

I lifted a hand to the back of my neck, squeezing it just below my hairline. That wasn't dropping, that was plummeting. "Yeah, that's bad."

"It's the latest string of ads. It's got to be. Have you seen them? All that 'tree-hugging is anti-business' crap?" Disgust sharpened his words into points.

"I've seen 'em." The ads were actually pretty amateurish, full of the kind of emotional manipulation that would have been right at home on Jerry Springer. But they played on a conservative's worst suspicions about Sam, and apparently they were working.

"We can't pin it on Webb because they're funded independently, so of course he looks all squeaky clean. And all these single-issue groups have come out of the woodwork, too, with their direct mail campaigns. They're all: 'Seaborn wants to kill babies and take away your guns, he's a pawn of the White House'. I'd never say this on my blog, of course, but between you and me, it's really hurting us. I didn't think people around here were stupid enough to fall for stuff like that, you know? I mean, their fliers look like total crap."

I traced a line along my eyebrows with a thumb and forefinger. Sam could still rebound, but I knew the patterns. This was the beginning of a slump, and with the election just a little over a month away, it was happening at exactly the wrong time. If Holcomb really wanted to salvage this campaign, he should have had Sam come out of the first debate swinging. I slammed a palm against the flat wooden arm of the chair. "Okay, listen. They're not attacking Sam on character anymore. They tried that, and we all saw what happened. They're going after him on policy."

"You see, that's just what I was thinking!" The kid was out of breath again, his voice rising. "I keep thinking about how after the election, I want to write something up about the two wars Webb was trying to wage, and how the one on policy was only the one that was effective." There was a short pause. "Hmm, that's got a nice ring to it, actually."

I gripped the arm of the chair. "Listen, this is what you have to keep reminding yourselves." I pulled the phone down against my face, speaking directly into the mouthpiece. "The strategy you guys have been using from the beginning, with the Mexican-Americans, it can still work. It's a Republican-dominated area, but that's because half of the voters are disenfranchised. That's how you win this one, by giving the ones who don't vote something to believe in. And you can't do that if you keep reining him in. You have to take him off the leash."

"Right, so like, if they're slamming on him, we should have Sam fire back with something like: 'Your policies are destructive in this way and that way, and we've *seen* their results, and we *reject* them!' Or something."

My grip on the chair relaxed. I had him. "And if they try to say he doesn't belong in Orange County, you've got to challenge their right to define it," I said. "Orange County is business, Orange County is banking, but Orange County is also health care, the environment, good schools, cultural diversity."

"Right, exactly!"

Stadler's secretary glanced up at me again from the other room, shooting me a quizzical look. I twisted away from her, holding up a hand at the side of my mouth to block the sound of my voice. "So when are you going to march in there and say all this to Holcomb?"

A long silence followed. My fingers drummed on the arm of the chair, and I brought the phone around to look at the screen. We were still connected. I lifted it to my ear again. I could hear the kid breathing.

"What are you waiting for?" I urged.

"I don't know, Mr. Lyman," he said, his voice breaking. "I don't think I can do that."

Frustration burned the inside of my chest. My free hand clenched around the curve of the chair's arm. "You know he's wrong," I said, struggling to keep my tone light. "You guys could still turn this thing around. Don't you want to be the guy who saves the day?"

"I mean, I-- sure." He sounded nervous now, like he was afraid I was going to yell at him. "Of course I want to do that. But, like, they just hired me for research, you know? I'm not in on any of the strategy stuff. I'm not even sure Mr. Holcomb remembers my last name."

My teeth clenched. Nobody was going to remember this kid's name if the only way he ever distinguished himself was by misspelling 'ostensible' on his blog. "Okay, how about a trial balloon, then," I said, trying again. "You tell Holcomb Sam should pick one of the issues that's come up, say, the environment. And the next time you've got him in front of a big audience, you make sure he attacks back on that issue. Then you get some polling on the issue, watch the numbers reverse. He sees you're right, and then you can bring out the big guns. But you've got to do it--"

"I really don't think Mr. Holcomb's gonna listen to me, Mr. Lyman. Especially not on the environment thing. I mean, just yesterday Sam was saying he wanted to speak at the annual general meeting of the Orange County chapter of the Sierra Club, and Mr. Holcomb talked him out of it."

"Wait." I sat up straight, mind and body both suddenly at attention. "Holcomb talked him out of that?" We can't veer that far left out here, he'd told me back in December. It'd mean disaster for the party.

A memory snapped into place. It had been the early stages of the Hoynes presidential race, and Holcomb and I and a couple of other guys had been up late at a bar one night, trying to figure out how we were going to spin the candidate's position on social security. Holcomb had started talking about how anything we did was going to make it tougher on the congressional candidates. Just one strategy of many, but suddenly it seemed significant.

A small cough from behind me caught my attention, and I twisted back toward the door. My eyes landed on a pair of women's boots, and I followed them up to a pair of very familiar legs. A jolt rattled through me. Amy. Her hand was planted on her hip, and there was a smirk on her face that pinned me to my spot.

"Okay, ah, look, I've got to go," I said to the Buffkin kid. "I'll call you back," I added. I folded my phone shut, my heart thundering.

"Don't let me interrupt," Amy taunted, plunking herself down next to me. A playful expression danced on her lips, and she tucked her briefcase in behind her legs. "You know, given the Inauguration Day hangover you must have woken up with yesterday morning, you look pretty okay today."

"So, you're here to congratulate me on a terrific start to the President's second term?" I snapped. "You just happened to be in the neighborhood?"

"I have a meeting with Stadler," she said casually. "God, this is an awful chair," she said, looking down at it with loathing.

I blinked. She was in on my meeting. "How--"

"I'm consulting." She raised an eyebrow, aiming it at me. "Don't look so surprised. Have you forgotten that anything you can do, I can do better?"

I tossed my head back. "And you're working for..." I gestured at her.

"Susan LaBrandt. She's after the rider that would torpedo the separation of church and state if H.R. 241 is allowed to pass. Which it won't."

I smirked. "So LaBrandt's secret weapon in the fight against faith-based initiatives is...you?"

Amy narrowed her eyes at me. "What, you think they don't let me out of my cage unless ovaries are involved?"

That was exactly what I'd been thinking, but I wasn't about to tell her that. I pulled my gaze away from her and looked at my watch. It had been twenty minutes, now. "Stadler's late."

Amy settled back against the chair, squirming to get comfortable. "Yeah, his secretary called my cell, so I took the long way here."

"You went in the front entrance?"

"I stopped off in the cafeteria and picked up a Slurpee." She placed her elbow against the arm of her chair and rested her chin on a fist. "So, what's this about you working for Sam's campaign?"

I gulped back a breath. "Sam's campaign?"

She reached across me, touching a finger to the cell phone in my hand. "You're moonlighting?"

The jig was up. I gave her what I hoped passed as a casual shrug. "I give my opinion when I have the time."

Her gaze latched on to me, scrutinizing, and then let me go. "I've already got a hundred on him. You know how I love the long shot." She tilted her head at me, her hair falling across her shoulders. "Things going okay?"

"Sure," I said, glossing over the polling news with a shrug. "Apparently he kicked Webb's ass in the debate last week."

Amy's grin echoed my own, and she assumed an authoritative pose. 'I don't abandon my friends--"

"--and I won't abandon you," I finished, my face spreading into a grin. That one would never get old.

It was all going to be over soon, though, if somebody on Sam's campaign team didn't let him go at Webb like that again, and this time on policy. Lines of anxiety creased my forehead, and my grin slipped away. I couldn't tell her about Holcomb. She had her own contacts at the DNC, and who knew what she'd pass on.

She was doing that staring thing of hers, the one that meant she was waiting for me to voice the unspoken thought hanging in the air between us. I forced the smile back into place. "Do I have something on my face?"

"How much of this is really about who wins an Orange County congressional election?"

A hot tickle formed in my chest, a slow burn. "Getting rid of Chuck Webb would be a real--"

"--and how much of this is about Sam?" Her eyes were fixed on mine, nudging me.

The burn spread from my chest to my face. "It's not," I said, lowering my voice. My gaze lost its grip on her face and slid around it, but she kept up the staring.

Her head dipped down in accusation, and she raised her eyebrows. "It kind of looks that way."

My stomach clenched. It had been like this the night I'd told her about Sam; she'd stayed silent and just let me talk. That had been the first time I'd ever seen her shut up, and this was the second.

This time, though, I wasn't going to give her anything she didn't already have. I edged away from her, sliding against the hard chair back. I forced myself to look at her, challenging. She still had that staring thing going on, but the look in her eyes was serious. She wasn't playing.

Her eyes broke the contact. She held out a carefully manicured hand and shoved a cuticle back with a fingernail. "You remember how after we broke up, you pulled some strings to try and get me a job at NARAL?"

She wasn't supposed to know about that. "I didn't pull any strings."

Her gaze collided with mine again. "You called Jennifer Zwilling and Cherie Towers the day after I told you to stop calling. You told them I was God's gift to women's rights, and if they didn't snap me up right now, they'd never get the chance again." She cocked an eyebrow at me. "What, you thought I wouldn't find out?"

I gave her a sheepish smile. "Those weren't exactly strings. Maybe threads." I lifted my shoulders in a shrug. "You didn't take the job."

A laugh shot out of her mouth. "I wouldn't even let you take me to dinner, Josh. You think I was going to ride around on your coattails? Thanks, but no thanks. I'm fine."

I leaned away from her, bristling. "Fine." The painting on Stadler's far wall was a series of abstract swirls of brown and dark green, but with a wedge of red in the center. I rubbed at the back of my neck.

"I know why you did it, though." Her voice was soft, and it pulled my gaze toward her again. She pointed a finger at me, and it dropped, landing on my arm. "And don't get me wrong, it pissed me off. But I have to admit it was kind of sweet."

Her voice was gentle now, but her finger felt sharp and accusing, even through my jacket. I wanted to pull away, but her shoulders were hunched toward me, as if to pull me in. I sat there, motionless.

"Oh, sure, part of it was that you were still feeling guilty over getting me fired, but most of it was about that weird sense of loyalty you've always had. You wanted to be able to give me something. And because you're Josh Lyman, it had to be that."

I forced myself to meet her eyes. My face was hot, and beads of sweat lined up along the back of my neck. I shot a quick glance at Stadler's secretary, but she was looking at the computer screen.

In a rush of movement, Stadler breezed into the office. "Josh. I'm so sorry to keep you waiting," he said to me. His eyes fell on Amy. "Oh, good, you're both here. Come on in."

Amy drew her finger back and smoothed her suit as she stood. Grabbing her briefcase, she followed Stadler into the inner office without looking back. For a long moment I stared at the empty space where she had been. I tucked my newspaper into my backpack, stood, and followed them.

###

SAM: JANUARY 25th, 2003, 5:30 PM

I averted my eyes so as not to have to watch another door close, but it slammed shut in a sound that was as unmistakable as it was familiar. This one had been a woman around my own age with a patrician demeanor and a glassy stare. She'd been calm but firm: she simply didn't care whether the quality of the public schools improved, whether seniors could afford to pay for their medications, or whether commuters gained access to a light rail system, not if it meant missing the CSI rerun she was watching. Two and a half hours so far this afternoon, and we hadn't found a single person who was really willing to talk to us.

I turned around, leaving Mom and Elena standing on the porch alone. The late afternoon sky was more D.C. than California, with clouds that hovered low on the horizon in a gray sheet of haze. The path leading to the woman's door wound past green bushes and beds of nondescript purple flowers, and I could hear Elena trotting along behind me. "It's a tough neighborhood," she said.

My mouth set in a line, and I kept walking. Following on the heels of a new spot that hadn't touched the downward spiral of my poll numbers and a Saturday afternoon rally with a hundred and fifty fewer supporters than we'd hoped, it was getting harder and harder not to see today as part of a trend. Our latest attempt to re-energize the campaign and sway voters in a youthful and growing neighborhood, and we were coming up empty.

"I mean, we always knew this precinct would be hard. It's swingable, but we've known from the beginning that Newport wouldn't be our core support."

"Sure," I said, raising my shoulders in a stiff shrug. All along, we'd shared a driving belief that I could win this election, but it was wrenching free from my grip, slipping away like an untamed horse.

My pace slowed from a run to a brisk stroll, and I looked back at Elena. I gave her a nod, and her nervous smile disappeared, replaced by one that was more genuine. She was trying; we all were. And in a neighborhood that was more Ralph Lauren and Beamers than rice and beans, we really were reaching beyond our core group of supporters.

Mom caught up to us, a little out of breath, her face streaked with red. "Well, that one wasn't so bad," she said. Her voice was irrationally, irritatingly cheery. She curled a wall of chin-length silver hair behind her ear and blinked up at me with expectant eyes.

My feet threatened to speed up again, but I tethered them to the driveway. "Mom, there was no way I was even going to be able to convince that woman to vote, much less vote for me."

"But at least you can be sure she isn't voting for Webb. Isn't that good?" She smoothed the collar on the gray dress she was wearing. It was a size too small and at least ten years out of style.

My teeth clenched, and I exchanged a look with Elena. It was no use trying to explain to Mom that if we were slumping, it was the voter apathy that was driving us there, not a sudden groundswell of support for a guy who'd already lost once to a dead candidate. I let my eyes wander back to the driveway. She thought she was providing moral support, but she wasn't making this any easier.

Elena shifted my fliers to her other hand and took Mom's arm, maneuvering her away from me. "You're right, Mrs. Seaborn. It could definitely be a lot worse."

A few long strides, and I was out at the sidewalk. The road was fringed with young trees hardly taller than I was, but at the property line, bushy hedges blocked one McMansion after another from view. A young guy in a red sports car slowed to a crawl, craning his neck over the edge of the car to follow us with his eyes. I waved at him, smiling, but he didn't return the gesture. He pulled away from us with a roar of the engine, and through the smog that surrounded his bumper I could just make out a 'Webb for Congress' sticker. Josh would have cracked a joke here, something about the guy's back window, rocks, and slingshots, but I was too tired for humor.

I stopped at the base of the next driveway, surveying the grounds. The exterior of the house was white stucco with two Grecian-looking pillars in the front. A bright yellow tricycle had skidded into a bed of leafy green plants, and the basketball net above the garage suggested teenagers. The SUV parked in the driveway had a UCLA alumni sticker in the back window. I turned to face Mom and Elena, gesturing toward the grounds, and put on a smile. "Onward."

"They have kids," Mom muttered, stepping gingerly over the tricycle and squeezing past the SUV. "Kids are good, aren't they?"

I cocked an eyebrow at her. "Maybe if we lowered the voting age to five, but I don't think that's part of the platform."

Mom turned to Elena. "Aren't people with kids more likely to vote for Sam? He supports better funding for education."

A gust of wind blew my hair into my face, and I brushed it out of my eyes. In Mom's world, only Democrats produced offspring. The porch light traced a circle of light against the impending dusk, and I clambered up the concrete steps. The bell sent a tinny chime echoing just inside the door.

I adjusted my tie as we waited, but the door remained closed. I leaned back, shifting my weight from one leg to the other, and glanced down at Elena. "Maybe they're not home," Mom piped up.

As if in response, the light went off. A shadow moved behind the gauzy curtains in the window beside the door, and then disappeared.

A sour taste seared the back of my throat. I'd been in this place plenty of times with the President in the early days of his first campaign, but it was so much harder not to take this personally when it was me they were calling a flake and a liar, my own name pronounced with sarcasm in issue ad after issue ad. Josh would have called it first-run indignation, and he'd have been right, but that didn't make it hurt any less.

My gaze wandered across the fence toward the next house. It was set back a bit from the road, and an enormous garage yawned at us through the gap in the vines. Elena glanced up at me with a flicker of concern. I looked away and headed back down the driveway again.

"You know, they've been bombarded with political messages for a solid year and a half," she called out. "I'm sure they just want a break from it."

I turned around and gave her a grim nod. I could hardly blame them if that was the case; I was starting to understand exactly how they felt.

"I bet it was the kids," Mom said, trying to catch my eye. She was one step behind me, just a sliver too close. "I know when I was alone in the house with you, I never wanted to answer the door unless it was somebody I knew."

I nudged the tricycle out of the way and headed for the sidewalk, the tension of a scowl in my forehead. I wasn't in the mood to be regaled with nostalgic tales of my childhood. The evening air was already growing heavy with dusk, making it all the more obvious that the entire afternoon had been spent on trying to reach people who just weren't available, at least not to us.

Mom sped up, matching my pace step for step. "You know, I've been wondering what I should say if they ask me about your religious background."

The cracks in the sidewalk loomed large, and I jumped over them, the old nursery rhyme about your mother's back intoning in my mind. "Mom, they're not going to ask you about my religious background." At the base of the next driveway there was an iron gate. I ran my hand along the bars, reaching for the latch. It swung open with a creak.

"But don't you think I should tell them that we used to--"

"Nobody's going to ask you about my religious background!" I spun around to face her. "Because for that to happen, they'd actually have to talk to us! And in case you haven't noticed, nobody's particularly interested in doing that today!"

A wounded look fell across Mom's face, aging her twenty years in five seconds. She stumbled back a step, and a wall of guilt crashed down around me. A young woman in a blue Mercedes that looked just like Lisa's pulled around the corner, staring at us as she drove past. A sudden headache gnawed at the nerves behind my eyes.

I pushed a sigh out between pinched lips, reaching for Mom's shoulder. The rings under her eyes gaped at me. Her bones felt fragile, as if they could break apart beneath my touch. "I'm sorry," I attempted.

Elena stepped between us, curling her shoulders toward me. "Do you want to call it a night?" she said quietly. "Mr. Holcomb wanted us to report back by six, and that only gives us fifteen more minutes anyway."

I pressed my lips together, my stomach sagging. There had to be somebody in this place we could really make contact with. "One more house."

Elena gave me a perfunctory nod. "Okay."

The iron gate swung shut behind us. Elena positioned herself between me and Mom, engaging her in a conversation about the upcoming AARP appearance where Mom and the Wilde widow would be the stars of the show. My two little old ladies, Scott had called them. Elena's voice tumbled over Mom's like currents in a stream, and I focused my eyes on the winding path and tuned them out, striding toward the porch. We had one more chance to make today about something bigger than a failed attempt at swinging the young professionals of Newport.

The toe of my shoe nudged against concrete, and I took the step up to the porch in one long stride. The bell was loud through the French door, and through the dips in the glass I could just make out a figure. The interior door swung open, and a tall man shifted his plate to his other hand. He had white hair and a beard trimmed close. "Yes?" he said, leaning toward us. He was old for this neighborhood, just a few years younger than Mom.

I stuck out my hand. "Good evening, sir." I put on my cheeriest tone, hoping I sounded earnest. "I'm sorry to interrupt your dinner."

He gave my hand a quick shake. "I've seen your picture in the papers."

"My name is Sam Seaborn, and I'm running for Congress." I tilted my head toward Mom. "This is my mother, Diane."

He gave Mom a nod, shaking her hand. "Good evening." His gaze landed on me again, and he squinted a little. "You work for President Bartlet."

I smiled. I wasn't going to shy away from that, no matter what Scott might prefer. "I certainly do. But after March 4th, I'm hoping to be working for you."

The guy's look was unreadable. He drew his hand back, grabbing at the edge of his plate.

"I'm running because I think people in Orange County are ready for a change. When this district elected Horton Wilde over Chuck Webb, they sent a clear message that they want things to be taken in a new direction."

The guy raised an eyebrow. "Okay."

A soft nudge at my side sent my hand reaching for the campaign literature. I handed it to the guy, opening the flyer up to the first interior page. "I think you'll find that I'm the one to take you there. I stand for support for seniors over privatization, and for strengthening the public schools. Can I count on your support?"

The guy accepted the flyer, but didn't look at it. "Look," he said, but it sounded more like a period than a comma. He shot Mom an apologetic look. "I don't want to be rude, but this community wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for the businesses you say are causing all the trouble. And I'm glad you say you stand for all that stuff, but...I don't think I can vote for somebody who doesn't stand for Orange County."

The line was straight out of the latest batch of Republican issue ads. A knot of nausea formed in my stomach, and something inside me just let go. Just two weeks ago I'd still felt like I could convince anyone who was willing to listen, but today even words were failing me. I gave him a broken smile. "Thank you for your time."

He nodded at Mom, then closed the door. For a long moment I stood motionless, my eyes fixed on the doorknob. Even Mom was silent. None of us looked at each other.

"We left the car over on Maple, I think." Elena's shoulders were slumped.

I turned around to face the path that led back to the sidewalk. The air was dark with evening, heavy with defeat. "Yeah."

"We've still got almost twenty percent undecided." Elena's voice was weary, but around the edges it crinkled with hope. "We just have to find them."

The only answer I could manage was a nod. I lifted my chin and pointed myself toward the car, but with each step I could feel the pull of the earth on me, my legs sinking further and further into quicksand.

###

JOSH: FEBRUARY 14th, 2003, 11:15 PM

"So, we're done?" I said, slapping my notebook shut and rolling my head around on my shoulders. We'd already been over the rising death counts in Kundu, the tax plan, and the President's upcoming campaign visit to Orange County.

"For tonight, yeah." Leo ran a finger down his calendar, rubbing his eyes with an absent knuckle. "You know, with everything we've got going on over the next couple of weeks, the scheduling department's gonna have a hell of a time finding a free morning to unveil the tax plan." Leo slid the calendar into the middle of his desk and let out a hiss of a sigh. "Did you remember that Monday was President's Day?"

"Yeah, I'm gonna surprise him with flowers and breakfast in bed." I stood, pushing my arms back into a stretch. "I hear Will Bailey's got a homemade coupon book all made up. Each one's redeemable for a free hug."

Leo ignored me. "With Holcomb cutting the President's appearances down to the bare bones, I don't even know if we should take the full two days. It'll disrupt the whole weekend." He made a face at the calendar. "The country's paying half a dozen Secret Service agents for this trip, and all we're doing is one big speech and a rally?"

I drummed my fingers on the arm of the chair. Leo had a point. And then there was the other thing--a Presidential visit might still bring out the crowds for Sam, but with the Democratic tax plan scheduled for release, they could all be carrying rotten tomatoes. "Have we thought about cancelling?"

Leo looked up at me. "Because of the time commitment?"

"Because of the *timing*. We've got a plan that raises taxes on the richest one percent, and at least half of 'em seem to live in Orange County, California."

Leo stood. "Well, the way Holcomb's throwing away other donors, I figured that richest one percent must be Sam's best buddies now."

I shook my head. "Throwing away donors?"

"I had lunch with Jennifer Zwilling yesterday." Leo grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and poked an arm through the sleeve. "She happened to mention that they've had a good ten grand ready and waiting for Sam for month and a half. And she says there's at least another forty grand from other groups just ripe for the plucking."

I blinked. "You're telling me there's fifty thousand dollars in interest group money earmarked for Sam's campaign...and Holcomb's refusing to touch it?"

Leo shook his head. "Hey, maybe he's got some magical source of funding we don't know about. Next time you talk to him, get him to let the rest of us in on his little secret, will you?"

He walked over toward the door, but I sat frozen, my mind whirling. The Buffkin kid had said they were running out of money and starting to cut corners. If Holcomb had liberal interest group money to spare and he wasn't spending it on Sam...

The last piece of the puzzle slipped into place. I swiveled the chair around to face Leo. Holcomb had given up on Sam, probably at the first sign of the downward trend in the numbers. Sam was the only face the party had in Orange County right now, and Holcomb couldn't control him. So he was cutting him off at the knees, trying to turn him into a bland, cookie-cutter Democrat who could revitalize the party without associating it with anybody who might make waves. Like NARAL. Like the President.

A knot of anger tightened in my chest, and I curled a pair of fists around the chair. I'd head straight for the airport. I'd take a couple of the weeks of the vacation time that was owed me and run Sam's campaign myself. They'd need somebody else after I beat Scott Holcomb to death with a surfboard.

"Everything okay?"

The room snapped back into place. Leo was standing by the door that led into the hallway, his coat slung over his arm. He was staring at me. "Ah. Sure." I looked down at my hands, unclenching my fists. "It's late." I stood, walking stiffly toward him.

Leo's hand hovered over the switch, and the overhead light blinked off. He shot a disgusted look at his watch. "Someday we're going to get to go home before eleven." I followed him out into the hall, and he pulled the door closed behind us. "See you in the morning."

"Yeah," I croaked, but my eyes were drawn across the hall, past the glass walls of the Roosevelt room and into the communications bullpen. The light was still on in Sam's office, and for a moment it was as if he had never left for California, hadn't gone off to chase this impossible dream. My stomach hollowed. He'd been all ready to turn the widow down. I could have talked him out of running if I'd only tried a little harder. He would have spent another year in the White House and then left for a Congressional run in the New York 14th. If it had gone that way, he would have won.

I drew in a ragged breath, shaking myself. Things were different now. It wasn't Sam's office anymore. Will Bailey had been Deputy Communications Director since the inauguration, and judging from the brown cardboard boxes I'd seen being carted in last week, he was here to stay. But before coming to the White House, Bailey had been Horton Wilde's campaign manager, the guy who'd managed to do the impossible. I needed him on this. I started walking, pulled toward the communications bullpen as if by gravity.

The overhead lights in the bullpen were off, and Bailey's desk lamp was the only light on in his office. There were still two cardboard boxes stacked on the floor, but framed pictures sat on either side of the phone, and one corner of the bulletin board was already covered with papers. Bailey was hunched over his laptop, his tie loosened and his jacket slung across the back of his chair. I leaned against the door frame. "Hey, you got a minute?"

He glanced up. A look of surprise shot across his face. "Sure."

My mouth opened. Somehow, 'I need your help with Sam's campaign' didn't seem like the right way to put this. I closed it again.

Bailey drew his hands back from the keyboard and shifted in his chair. "Am I supposed to start?"

I swallowed. "Okay, you've probably figured out that I've been doing a few things for Sam's campaign."

There was an automatic wariness in his look, his eyes narrowed to slits. "Um."

I waved a dismissive hand in the air. "It's nothing major, just...the occasional piece of advice, you know how it goes."

Bailey nodded, relaxing a little. "I'm sure even Scott Holcomb can use some help from the guy who elected Bartlet in '98."

My stomach lurched. I'd installed a campaign manager who'd sacrificed his star player for the sake of the team. Some kind of help. I stepped toward Bailey, grabbing onto the back of the chair on the other side of his desk. "Have you ever worked on a losing campaign?"

He gave me a slight smile. "If you'd asked practically anybody last fall, they'd have said Horton Wilde was a losing campaign."

I pulled the chair toward me. It groaned as it slid it along the floor, and I sat down in it. "I met Sam on one. Mike Silverstein for Senate. New York, 1986."

Bailey shook his head. "The name isn't familiar."

"That's because he left politics after having the pants beaten off of him by the Republican incumbent, who you might know as Senator Paul--"

"--D'Angelo. Aha."

I glanced at my lap, then back up at Bailey. "Right up through November I sat there, thinking there had to be some way out. I'd be watching his numbers drop more every day, but I kept thinking there had to be something we could do, some strategy that could bring us back."

"It can happen."

I shrugged. "Sure. It did for the President back in November. And that's why the numbers aren't actually the best sign that you're tanking."

Lines creased Bailey's forehead. "I don't follow."

"You know you're running a losing campaign when it takes on a life of its own. You stop talking about the issues, you don't even discuss how to get your message out. The only thing is the campaign. That's when you know you're losing your grip on the wheel, and every bit of damage control you do just makes it that much harder to grab hold of it again." I rubbed the tension out of the back of my neck. "Sam's run for the 47th looks like that. Right now."

His mouth dipped into a frown. "He's still got the media on his side. The big California papers love him. In fact, they love him so much that the campaign got a mention in Safire's semi-annual column on liberal media bias."

I grinned. "That was great, wasn't it?"

"And they never even picked up the whole prostitute thing. They'll go after him on policy, but personally he's Teflon. Even the guy who called asking if Sam was gay was going to put a positive spin on it." He tilted his chair back, and it let out a screech. "It's probably a good thing that guy didn't know the whole story about that, though. That would have been one more thing Sam didn't need in this campaign."

"The whole story?"

"That he's bisexual."

My pulse sped up, and I felt a clutching in my chest. I tried to take in a breath, but my throat had closed over.

Bailey blinked at me. "Oh, my God. He's never told..." His face went pale. "I just assumed-- I mean, you guys have been friends for-- oh, God."

My mouth went dry. "No, I--"

"He said he wasn't keeping it a-- okay, I am a complete idiot." He spread both palms in the air in front of him, his eyes darting around the room. "I need to call Sam," he said, reaching for his phone.

I lunged forward, reaching across to the receiver. I wrapped a hand around his wrist, holding it down. "Will. I know."

"You know."

"Yes."

"Oh, thank God." His forehead hit his laptop keyboard with a clatter of keys.

I let go of his arm and leaned back in my chair, steadying myself against the edge of his desk. "How do you-- he told you this?" I managed to squeak.

Bailey lifted his head again. He drew his hand back from the phone, shaking the receiver in its cradle. "When he came to California in November. I told him a reporter from some alternative rag had been nosing around the idea that he was gay. That was when he told me."

I gestured for him to elaborate. "He told you..."

"That...he was bisexual." His chin dipped, and he looked up at me over his glasses, his eyes dull with confusion.

I drew in a breath, forcing calm into my lungs. This was Sam's thing, not mine. He was allowed to tell anybody he wanted. I leaned back in the chair again, and a wash of guilt swept through me. Sam had always hated the way I took this so personally. I gulped back the knot in my throat, feeling the flush of anxiety pass. "Webb's guys don't know?"

Bailey chuckled. "Well, if they do, they're not going to say anything about it. Unless they can prove he's been outright lying about it, there's no way they'll risk bringing up another personal issue."

"Especially if they can keep the moral high ground and skewer him on policy." I planted one elbow on either side of the chair and steepled my fingers. I was actually more freaked out over how that would affect Sam than I was over how it would affect me, which surprised me a little. It would have surprised Sam even more. A dull ache formed around my heart.

Bailey's brow furrowed. "There's something you're not telling me."

There were a lot of things I wasn't telling him, but there was one thing I probably should. I pushed a breath out in a sigh. "It's Holcomb."

"What about him?"

"About three weeks ago, he stopped returning my phone calls."

"Okay."

"And then he started putting off key Democrats who might want to campaign for him. Governor Tillman. Senator Jenkins. The President."

Bailey leaned toward me, intrigued. "So...he's cutting off ties to the political establishment? Trying to turn Sam into a populist? That's not going to play in the 47th."

I shook my head. "The head of NARAL says there's fifty thousand dollars in interest group money just waiting for Sam. Holcomb hasn't gone near it."

Bailey was silent for a moment, thinking. "He's got some big source of local funding. Something we wouldn't have heard about."

I scooted the chair closer to the desk. "They're running out of money. They had to find a cheaper shop for the latest batch of lawn signs."

Bailey's mouth dropped open, his eyes growing wide. "He's given up. But why..." He held up a finger. "He's cutting Sam loose. He's trying to spare the local party some grief when it gets splashed with Sam's liberal mud."

Anger flared on his face, reigniting my own. I'd made this happen. My gaze fell to his desk. "This is going to kill him. He trusted Holcomb to do this right."

I let my eyes fall shut, and painted on the inside of my eyelids was Sam's face, drooping with the hurt and exhaustion of the months after our world had fallen apart, inside and out. He'd been pulled into some dark place, taking the brightest parts of himself along with him, but this campaign had turned that around again. In every television spot and in every interview, the old Sam was shining through. And that was the guy he needed to be right now. The guy who'd made Charlie's volunteer teaching program real with a few words of a speech, the guy who'd put Mendoza on the bench. Everything depended on it.

"Josh." Bailey's voice was quiet, but firm. "You didn't talk me out of running the campaign."

I opened my eyes. "I know."

"There's nothing anybody could have said to keep me there. If I hadn't been offered this job, I'd probably still be on a beach in France right now."

I nodded, but didn't look at him.

"And if it hadn't been Holcomb, it probably would have been somebody else with the same agenda. I mean, from the DNC's perspective, it'd be nice to get the California 47th, but it's not exactly on the list of the must-win districts."

I raised my shoulders in a shrug. "Sure."

Bailey's mouth opened, catching on a breath as if he wanted to say something but had thought better of it. "So what are you going to do?" he said finally.

My fingers drummed out a rhythm on his desk. That was the million dollar question. "I think-- I don't want to confront Holcomb on the phone." I pushed a breath out through my nose. "When we go out there next week, either we'll find out that this was all one big coincidence--"

"--or heads are going to roll?"

The corner of my mouth quirked. "Something like that."

Bailey's head tilted toward me. "Does Sam know?"

I swallowed. The last thing I'd seen from Sam was a smiling photo with the head of the Newport Beach Chamber of Commerce. He didn't know. He'd probably have sensed something was wrong, but he didn't know. I shook my head.

"Good."

"Yeah?" My eyebrows shot up.

"You've got to keep him moving until you're ready to take action. If you tell him now, his heart won't be in it anymore, and if he slows down, it'll be impossible to get his momentum back up once Holcomb is out of the picture." He shook himself a little and drew back. "Uh, I mean, that's what I'd be saying if it were my decision. Which it's not."

I choked on a laugh. "Yeah, it's not mine, either." I glanced around at the office that was no longer Sam's. His Don't Tread On Me flag had been replaced by a photo of Will's dad in full dress uniform and some framed certificate in French, and Sam's own Princeton and Duke diplomas had been replaced by what looked like a weathered copy of a speech. Will had settled in--and nobody could say he didn't belong. I looked back at him. "Hey. Thanks."

"Sure," he said with a shrug, but his forehead wrinkled, his frustration visible on his face. "You know, he really would have made a great Congressman. Wilde would have been proud." His eyes slid across to mine. "Not-- I mean-- he could still win."

I raised my eyebrows. Will didn't believe that any more than I did.

"You don't think he can."

I let my eyes drop to his desk, my fingers fiddling with the stack of files lying in his outbox. It was the big picture that mattered now, the inch-thick file of long-term strategies in the back of my cabinet. "Not this time," I admitted.

There was deliberate cough from the doorway, and I craned my neck toward it. Donna had one hand on the doorknob and the other on the scarf she was winding around her neck. "I'm heading out, but a fax just came in that you're going to want to see."

"I'll be down in a minute," I said, turning back around again.

"The head of the California chapter of the Republican National Hispanic Assembly is talking trash about Sam's mom."

Will's eyes widened, reflecting my own shock, and I turned back toward Donna. Her mouth was set in a line.

In a single gesture, Will and I both stood, shoving our chairs back, and followed her out.

###

SAM: FEBRUARY 14th, 2003, 8:45 PM

Dark blue veins bulged in Mark's neck, and his face was flushed. The newspaper was folded in half in his hand, and he held it up as he read. "Seaborn sells himself as a representative of the poor and the downtrodden, but he's just another white guy from Laguna Beach who makes a hundred and fifty thousand a year in Washington. His mother owes her garden to the sweat of Mexican workers, and she hired a whole team of expensive lawyers to represent her in her recent divorce."

It was just as ugly out loud as it had looked in print. I clenched a fist around my pen and stabbed it into the blank pad of paper on the table in front of me. I'd spent all these weeks completely avoiding the subject of Dad with Mom, and things had remained calm. The last thing she needed was to see a mention of her divorce in the OC Register.

Tom broke the silence. "The guy's name is Ramon Diaz. He's--well, he *was* the head of the California chapter of the RNHA. He's been fired. Webb's already denouncing the statement."

"He'd better be," Elena snapped. She kicked the table leg, and it shook against the linoleum.

Tom pointed at me. "You know this isn't really about your mom."

I slammed a palm down on the table. "Of course this is about my mom!"

"No, it's about you," he said, insistent. "If guys like Diaz can make you look like a fraud, discredit you with your core voter base, then Webb's won. Attacking an old lady was a stupid way to do it, but the concept's not a bad one."

I jabbed the pen against the page again, and a blue blob of ink formed in one corner. The wail of Mom's voice reverberated in my mind. Twenty-eight years. I looked up and met Mark's eyes in a cold stare. "I want to strike back."

He leaned toward me. "You're thinking a spot?"

"I'm thinking the guy's jaw," I mumbled through clenched teeth.

"A spot's a good idea," he said, turning to Scott. "Something strong, something positive. We have to reclaim our territory."

"Positive?" Elena snorted. "We've been pushing a positive message for weeks, and it's not getting through. We're almost ten points down, and a prominent Republican just assaulted our candidate's mother. We've got lots of room to attack."

Tom shot Scott a look. "They're just trying to provoke us," he said. "The last thing we want to do now is play right into their hands."

Scott spread a hand flat against the table, sliding it toward me. "Okay. Sam, remember what you were saying about how people feel about politicians? You don't want to be the guy who proves them right."

Elena gave him a vehement shake of her head. "But we--"

"I'm with Scott," Betsy added, cutting Elena off both with her words and with a determined look. She turned toward Mark, pulling blonde strands of hair out from underneath her collar. "Besides, if we're going to make another ad, we're going to have to pull one of the ones that's already in the pipeline. We don't have that kind of money lying around."

"Either way, we're going to need to condemn Diaz's statement," Tom said. "Maybe we can drop it into the waterfront speech tomorrow?"

Mark nodded. "That's good. And tomorrow morning bright and early, maybe Sam can do something with Diane. I'm sure I can get them on California AM." His face set in determination. "If we make this whole thing look like Republicans going after an old lady, it can work for us."

I imagined Mom, pale beneath the lights, camera lenses trained on her quivering lower lip. A flame seared my stomach. "Maybe we shouldn't even acknowledge it," Tom mused. "Let the fallout settle on its own, and then Sam gets to keep the high road."

"What we really need is to get Diane to make a joke," Betsy said. "Something that shows she doesn't even take them seriously. Make them look as ridiculous as they sound."

"I like it," Scott said. "Any ideas? Let's see if we can push up those numbers."

Numbers. My teeth clenched. If we couldn't agree that looking for a political upside to an attack on a helpless old woman was just plain wrong, then we were no better than Diaz.

My eyes grazed each of them in turn, searching their faces for that spark of excitement and hope from just a couple of months ago, but I could only see frustration and panic. I frowned. Even in the lowest moments of the Bartlet for America campaign, we'd all known it was about something bigger than winning an election.

Betsy leaned back in her chair, her cardigan sweater falling open as she stretched her arms. "You know, I'm starting to wonder whether we might not want to just cancel the President. We've only got a little over two weeks until the election, and we've got a lot of fires to put out already."

Elena scoffed. "We can't just cancel the--"

"Right," Scott said, pointing in Betsy's direction. "And he could end up being a liability. If we don't have time to--"

"A liability?" A shock shot through me. "The President of the United States?"

Scott turned to face me. "I just mean we don't know what's in the tax plan he's announcing next week," he said, backpedaling, but annoyance edged out the deference he was trying to push into his voice. He sounded like he was talking to a teenager. "If there are no cuts for small businesses, it could hurt us."

"A lot," Betsy added.

Elena leaned toward Scott, waving a hand to catch his attention. "Mr. Holcomb, I know you think-- I really think we need to reconsider doing that spot."

Scott jerked back around toward her, his jaw clenching. "Betsy just went over this."

A strange feeling of irrelevance washed across my skin, seeping into every pore. They all thought this campaign would run better if I weren't there.

"I know," Elena insisted, "but I just think-- something a little tougher than the ones we've tried so far." She turned to Mark. "It was right after the first debate that we had our peak numbers. If we could just harness some of that energy..."

All at once I was on my feet. Elena's eyes turned up to me, and her mouth snapped shut. Her eyes were first expectant, then fearful, and then four more pairs of eyes followed, each of them betraying a mixture of confusion and surprise. I drew in a breath, but the air felt stale, stifling me. Tell me again, what do we stand for? I wanted to yell, but the words collided into each other on my tongue.

My chair scraped against the linoleum, and I took a step back from the table. I walked toward the door, my footsteps echoing through the room, hollow and empty. My jacket felt coarse between my fingers as I grabbed it from the back of the couch.

"Sam." I could hear Scott's voice from behind me, forceful but placating, and I flinched away from it. In one last push of energy, I stepped through the door and closed it behind me.

I didn't look back, but I knew no one would have followed me, and the pounding in my chest slowed as I walked out to the car. Street lights illuminated the carpet of trees that lined the lot next to the building, and I slid my key into the door of the rental Malibu. My hands gripped the wheel, grabbing hold of something solid, something permanent.

After three months, the drive from the campaign office back to Laguna Beach was a path I knew by rote. The road was rough with gritty sand as I pulled out of the same old parking space, drove down the same highway, stopped at the same stop lights. As I drove my mind pushed back across five years of memories, the past and the present folding over each other in unrecognizable swirls. This time in 1998, the Bartlet for America campaign had been in Florida, the hot tropical sun chasing away all reminders of the New Hampshire winter. The audiences had been growing, and so had the enthusiasm. Super Tuesday had still loomed large, but we'd all known the country was ripe for Josiah Bartlet. And at night, in darkened hotel rooms when everyone else had long fallen asleep, there had been Josh. I bit into the insides of my cheeks, a metallic taste coating my tongue.

The porch light was on in front of Mom's house, making me feel like a teenager coming home from a study date. Its glow spread out across the yard, and it formed a shadow of the tree I'd once climbed, back when it had still been shorter than the second story of the house. The awning reached across the side window, the light from the living room faintly visible. She was still up.

I dropped my head, pushing a breath out through my nose, and slid the key out of the ignition. If she hadn't read the paper yet, at least I could break the news to her gently.

I turned the doorknob carefully, quietly. Soft classical music drifted in from the back room, and I pried my shoes off with my toes, abandoning them by the front door. My gaze flitted automatically past the framed pictures in the entryway, but I forced it back. Most of them were of me at various childhood stages of awkward, and others were of me and her and Dad in various combinations. My eyes stopped on one: a beaming eight-year-old version of me, my parents with their arms locked, leaning across a beach towel. It was a cardboard illusion, a shrine to a marriage that had never really worked and a little boy who'd grown up to be a stranger.

I eyed the staircase. Every muscle in my body was telling me to head upstairs, go straight to bed, put off the inevitable. Instead I pulled myself into the doorway to the living room, blinking against the sudden brightness of the overhead light. Mom had her reading glasses on, and her head was bowed into a book, her feet tucked underneath an afghan. I braced myself, a hand on the door frame. "Hey, Mom."

Her face brightened even before she looked up. "Sam! I didn't hear you come in." She draped her book across the arm of the couch, pulling off her glasses, and stood. "Come sit down. What can I get you?"

Her hospitality chafed me like sandpaper. My back stiffened. "I'm fine."

"It's okay, I was getting something for myself." She scurried into the kitchen, ducking into the doorway. "How about some tea?" she called out.

She couldn't have seen the paper yet. I was going to have to tell her. "Really, I'm fine."

She poked her head around the corner again, rattling a box of tea bags. "How about peppermint? There's no caffeine."

My mouth flattened into a line. "Peppermint's fine."

The sound of rushing water met my ears, followed by metallic clanking. "How did this morning go?"

"This morning?" I moved into the room, searching it for her copy of the OC Register.

"Weren't you out at the university this morning?"

"Uh, yeah." I hadn't talked to her in days, and the speech hadn't been scheduled until Wednesday. My forehead tightened. "It went well. Standing room only." She didn't have to know the auditorium maxed out at 150.

The rush of the electric kettle grew louder, and then clicked off. "That's just great, honey."

The students had been smart and interested, but afterward Scott had barely looked at me before charging on to the next big thing he wanted me to do. Another clank sounded from the kitchen. "You know, they've really expanded," I called out to her. "All those buildings where there used to just be fields. I hardly recognized the place."

A steaming cup of tea preceded Mom back into the room, the green tag of a tea bag dangling off the side. "You know, I bet you wouldn't have any problem recognizing it if you came home more often."

Her words hung in the air. I rocked back toward the doorway, my mouth tightening. A tense silence wove itself around us.

Her eyes widened, and she looked down at herself as if she'd been possessed and had suddenly come to her senses. "Oh, listen to me." She walked over and sat back down on the couch, pulling a wicker coaster across the glass coffee table and setting the mug of tea down on it. "I guess old habits die hard." She tilted her head at the couch. "Come sit down."

The back of my neck was prickling with tension, but I gave her a good, long look. She had aged--"let herself go," as some of her gardening club friends would have said, meaning that she hadn't had her face lifted and her eyelids tucked--but around her there was a vague feeling of softness. I hadn't seen that in her in a long time, maybe ever. I edged closer. "How did you know I was at UCI this morning?"

"Oh." Her eyes dropped, and she looked back up, a little embarrassed. "Karen copied me on your schedule when she sent it out this morning." I shifted my weight away from her. Karen hadn't mentioned this. My forehead creased, and Mom shook her head. "She only does it sometimes. I just like to keep up with what you're doing, and the papers don't report on everything. I know you don't always want me asking."

I swallowed. This kind of keeping tabs on me felt uncomfortably familiar, but at least she hadn't been spontaneously showing up at every event.

"I try to stay out of your way," she added, as if in response to my unspoken thought.

The sour taste of guilt rose in my throat. I'd been avoiding her, and she knew it. I gave her a tight-lipped smile and sat down next to her, pushing the afghan against the back of the couch. My eyes wandered over to her book. It was Art Schlesinger's A Thousand Days.

My smile broadened. "You're reading a biography of John F. Kennedy?"

"This?" She held it up, shrugging. "It passes the time." She slid a bookmark into it and set it in her lap.

My eyes fell back down to the couch. Draped across the arm, in the spot underneath where the book had been, was today's OC Register. It was folded in half along the bottom edge, and the picture of Diaz stared back at me, an angry hand raised above his head. A sense of shock cut through me. She'd already seen the article.

I reached across her, holding the page up in front of her. "You saw this?" I said, my voice gentle.

She glanced down, and her eyes skidded off the page again. "Oh, that." She bit her lip. "What an awful man."

A surge of protectiveness shot through me, and I moved closer, a hand on her arm. "Mom, I am so, so sorry. He shouldn't be dragging you into this."

She waved a hand in the air. "Oh, don't worry about me." She drew in a breath and pushed the paper away, her eyes meeting mine. Bone-deep shadows drooped beneath her eyes, but she forced a smile. "I'm the mother of a politician. This sort of thing happens." She tapped her finger against the cover of her book. "I mean, it's not exactly Chappaquiddick."

A rush of feeling radiated through me: surprise intermingling with something warmer. She was rolling with this. My hand edged down her arm, curling around her elbow. "Mark was saying something about doing some sort of appearance about this tomorrow morning. You and me together. How would you feel about that?"

She took in a long breath and then pushed it back out. Slowly, she nodded. "I can do that."

"There would be reporters there." I snagged her gaze. "They might say things about stuff you-- about Dad."

Her lips pressed together, and her hands fidgeted in her lap. She looked up, her jaw set in determination. "I can do it."

"You don't have to." My voice was quiet.

"I know." Her eyes let go of mine. "You know, speaking of your father," she said, reaching down along the side of the couch. "You and I weren't the only Seaborns in the paper today." She held up today's L.A. Times, open to page two, just below the fold. "His company acquired some smaller company-- a software startup, I think. The article mentions him. Twice."

She shoved the paper onto my lap, but I didn't look down. "Ah, yes, mergers and acquisitions. Old white guys turning young white guys into millionares. Just make sure Ramon Diaz doesn't hear about it, or I'll never live it down."

"Have you been up to see him yet?"

My spine stiffened. "Ramon Diaz? I'm pretty sure he lives in Santa Ana, which wouldn't exactly qualify as 'up'..."

Mom pursed her lips, frowning. "You know, he really does love you."

I held up a hand, annoyed. "Mom..." There had been two quick phone calls since I'd arrived, both awkward and stilted. There wasn't going to be a visit, and I knew Dad was as relieved about that as I was. "Okay." I brought my hand back down to my lap, looking at her. "You're allowed to quit apologizing for him anytime. Really."

A ripple of pain slid across her face. She gave me a stiff, reluctant nod.

"And I know you said old habits die hard, but you should have stopped twenty years ago." I stacked the L.A. Times on top of the OC Register and pushed them both onto the coffee table. "Or at least two."

She was still nodding. "You're right," she said, her voice barely a whisper. She reached for my hand, but her expression was even, with an undercurrent of strength.

I curled toward her, my hand tightening around hers. "Have you ever thought about maybe selling this place? You could go somewhere else. Somewhere without quite so many memories."

She looked up at me, an indulgent smile dancing on her lips. "That's what you'd do, isn't it? Cut off all your ties and never look back." She tossed her head back, sending silver hair scattering across her shoulders. "You were even like that as a little boy. Like with Davey Crane."

"Davey Crane?" I couldn't place the name.

"He lived two doors down, where the Richardsons live now. You two played together every evening for more than a year, and then there was a fight--something about a missing baseball card or some silly thing like that--and you never spoke to him again. Not for years."

I reached back into my memories, trying to place Davey Crane, but all my childhood playmates blended into shapeless shadows of faces. The attempt at a quick, clean incision was familar, though: this evening's meeting, Gage Whitney, the White House, Lisa, even Josh. Mom knew me better than I'd realized.

She disengaged her hand from mine, pulling it into her lap. "I don't know what I'll do next. Maybe I'll sell the house at twenty times what we paid for it and move into some cute little condo by the water. Maybe I'll travel. There's a lot I haven't seen. But right now I'm here, and I'm doing okay."

I shook my head. She sounded so stable, so together. How had I not seen it? "Have you thought about maybe...seeing someone?"

"You mean a man?" She sniffed. "I don't need that."

"I just don't like to think of you alone."

She gave her head a shake. "I have a very full life, Sam. I know it doesn't look like it to you, but I really do." Her expression darkened. "I have to-- I'm trying to figure out who I am without him."

A sudden sharp pain hit me, nerves pricking from behind my eyes. I blinked against them.

She ducked her head, her face reddening. "That must sound pretty silly to someone who's done all the things you've done, what with your Washington career and your fast-paced life." Her eyes were red as they met mine again. "But I think maybe when somebody was such a huge part of your life for so long, and then they're just...not around anymore...it takes a while to sort that out."

Her words knotted my vocal cords, a string pulled taut. It didn't sound silly. I cupped a hand around hers, pulling it toward me.

She tilted her head at me, the wrinkles in her forehead deepening with puzzlement, but she squeezed my hand back. "How about you? It's been a long time since Lisa."

I looked away. I drew my hand back again, but tried on a smile. "I'm running for Congress. My social life consists of shaking hands and kissing babies." I tensed my shoulders, bracing agains the inevitable push back, but she didn't speak. I looked up at her again, and her eyes were gentle on mine. She gave me a wistful, world-weary smile.

The tension in my shoulders eased, and I looked around the room. This old house with all its conflicting memories suddenly felt like the eye of the storm, a wedge of calm that cut through the sinking polling numbers, the lukewarm response from everyone outside of my core supporters, and the tension among the campaign staff. A fierce burst of love for Mom bubbled up from inside of me. I reached out and drew her toward me.

Her smile was full now, the lines around her mouth pulled taut. "Happy Valentine's Day," she said, squeezing me back.

A laugh tumbled out of my mouth. "Happy Valentine's Day."

###

JOSH: FEBRUARY 23rd, 2003, 7:14 PM

The door opened with a squeal, and the two Secret Service agents on either side of it each took a careful step sideways. All of the conversation backstage stopped, cutting through the buzz of frenetic energy, and the local staffers' necks craned in unison toward the door. Two guys in overalls rolled a cart inside. "Still not the President," one of them yelled, and a ripple of nervous laughter spread through the group.

I shifted my weight from one leg to the other, impatient. In the twelve hours we'd been in Orange County, Holcomb had made it more than clear that he wasn't playing this game to win. Toby had agreed to take over if and when the campaign manager spot suddenly became vacant. It was long past time to take this thing several steps over Holcomb's head.

The still half-open door flew all the way open again, and C.J. shot inside. Eyeing the other side of the stage, she made a beeline for the walkway behind the curtain. "Hey." I stepped toward her, putting a hand on her arm to slow her down. "How did the briefing go?"

Her feet ground to a halt. "Do you know how many euphemisms for 'bar fight' you can cram into ten minutes? I think I managed to come up with sixteen, but I lost track."

I sighed. Leave it to Toby and Charlie to turn defending the honor of Andi Wyatt into a three-ring circus. They were still being held at the local police station, and it looked like they might spend the night. "What did you tell them?"

"I told them the blow Charlie struck was in self-defense. I told them the guy wasn't pressing charges, that it was a misunderstanding and it's over now. I told them it was all a mass hallucination produced by the space aliens currently hovering over Newport Beach."

I cocked an eyebrow at her. A girl with a blonde ponytail shot her a confused look as she strode past.

"Okay, that last part might have been wishful thinking," C.J. admitted.

"Did they ask about the tax plan?" I asked.

She gestured off to one side with both hands. "Do you mean exhibit A, the Republican plan, with the tax cuts that would explode the deficit?" She turned to her other side. "Or do you mean exhibit B, the Democratic plan, which includes the rather exciting provision of managing to make college tuition affordable, but which we aren't allowed to talk about until Monday?"

Apparently, C.J. was in an even worse mood than I was. "Won't the Toby and Charlie show give the press guys something to talk about other than 'all tax cuts, all the time'?" I tried.

Her eyes narrowed. "They asked when we would be issuing our response, Josh. After two days of missed news cycles, that's what the Democratic plan is going to be. A *response*." She tossed a hand in the air. "Tax-deductible tuition? That's not a groundbreaking new policy. That's just the Democrats' response to the Republican tax plan."

I shook my head. "If we announced a plan that raises taxes on the richest one percent from Orange County--"

"It'd kill any chances Sam might still have." She held up a hand. "Now tell me something I don't know."

"Okay, how about 'Scott Holcomb's gonna have to be replaced?" I offered.

C.J. snorted. "He's got Sam canceling the UAW so that he can speak to the Newport Beach Chamber of Commerce. I'd say so."

"So you'll back me if I take it to the President?"

"Right after I come up with another sixteen euphemisms for the next briefing, sure." She turned back toward the walkway leading behind the curtain and stalked off.

I shoved a hand into the pocket of my suit, closing a fist around a few stray coins. Seeing Sam in person had been a rude shock. He'd been trying to keep his spirits up, but he'd looked ground down, as if Holcomb had tromped all over him and tossed him aside.

My eyes strayed around the rest of the backstage area, but Holcomb and the other key staffers were nowhere to be found. The Buffkin kid was huddled in a corner talking to the communications guy, and his face brightened as he caught my eye. He gave me a wave, moving toward me, but skittered back again when he saw what must have been a permanent glare on my face. I turned back toward the door.

As if in response, it opened wide. One of the new Secret Service guys marched inside, followed by the President and Debbie Fiderer. I moved toward them, leaning in toward the President. "Sir."

Debbie stepped back, but he kept walking. "Toby and Charlie were arrested in a bar fight," he grumbled.

"Yes, sir, it's not going to be a problem." I matched his stride step for step, walking past the guys who were setting up the row of television screens. "C.J.'s taking care of it."

"Really?" Only the President could sound that sarcastic.

"It's going to be a little bit of a problem," I admitted. But if that was a molehill for Sam's campaign, then Holcomb was a mountain.

The President stopped, turning toward me. He glanced around him, his mouth pressed into a line. "Every time we come to Southern California, we are absolutely the Clampetts."

Sam's communications guy eyed us from across the room, and I leaned in a little closer to the President. "He booked him at the Newport Beach Chamber of Commerce," I said, lowering my voice. "He had him skip a union lunch without telling restaurant employees."

The President shook his head. "I came--"

"He wants him speaking at Cal Lutheran," I interrupted, holding up a hand. "Scott Holcomb's given up on Sam, and he's running his own agenda. Now, I can't leave with the tax proposal coming out, but Toby says he can. Evidently, Will's put together a top-flight staff that can handle things for a week. Now, as the leader of this party you--"

"You really don't want to shake up a campaign like this at this point in the election calendar," he said, his voice low.

"At this point in the election calendar look which way his numbers are going," I insisted. "I'm amazed he's kept a veneer of sanity, much less..."

The heavy metal door slammed, and Sam burst through it. His hair was pushed back over his ears, the way he'd worn it back in New York, but his mouth was set in an angry line. He stalked toward me. "Are you crazy?"

My heart jumped. Somebody had let on to Sam that we were holding back the tax plan announcement. I rocked back on one leg, thrown. "We were just--"

"Have you all lost your minds?" He shot me a glare, walking past me.

"Well, C.J., maybe," I tried to joke, but he kept walking. I followed him over toward the curtain.

A cheer erupted from the auditorium. Things had gotten started. Sam spun around. "I just assumed that it wasn't ready yet. It's ready now, isn't it?"

"Yeah," I admitted.

"You're missing news cycle after news cycle after news cycle, but you didn't announce because you didn't want to do it from Orange County." His voice was sharp.

"Would you?"

"Yes!" he yelled. Two or three people looked up.

There was nothing worse than Sam's accusing glare, but I couldn't help but crack a smile. Tax-deductible tuition had always been Sam's baby, and no Congressional race was going to change that. Principles over power, that was our Sam.

"I say to hell with the election!" Everybody's eyes were on him now, and the conversation among the staff had disappeared almost completely. "There's a guy in St. Louis making fifty-five thousand a year trying to send his kid to Notre Dame!"

"Guys." The President held up a finger. Another cheer rang out from the other side of the curtain. "We've got to keep our voices down a little."

"Sam." It was the communications guy. "It's time."

Sam threw him a glance, and then looked back at me. His face still looked worn, but there was a spark in his eyes. "If I'm going to lose, I'd like to lose doing something."

Our eyes locked. My chest warmed with pride, and it was all I could do not to reach for him and pull him toward me. Sam was back. "So here he is," came the voice from the stage. "The next U.S. Representative from the California 47th Congressional District."

Sam dropped his eyes and drew back as the curtain parted. He stood tall, stepping into the spotlight, waving. The roar from the crowd drowned out every voice from backstage, and camera flashes scattered throughout the front few rows. I felt myself nodding. He looked more than just professional, he looked like the guy everybody wanted on their team. Out of the corner of my eye I could see a fatherly smile on the President's face.

Sam grabbed hold of the podium, and the cheers from the crowd grew quieter. "Thank you," he said. "Thank you very much. The President of the United States is backstage. He'll be out here in a minute. He'll be out here in a minute because, of course, he's monitoring our troops in Kundu." His eyes fell to the podium, and he pressed his lips together into a solemn look. A teleprompter glowed at the edge of the stage, but so far he hadn't glanced at it. "But I wanted to say that yesterday the Republicans rolled out their tax plan."

The door behind us opened again, and I glanced over my shoulder. It was Holcomb, his top button unfastened and his face flushed. He scrambled toward us, giving the President a quick nod and then turning his attention to Sam.

"Do not let this President off this stage until he's told you his," Sam said to the crowd. "Send me to Congress, and mine will be the first yea vote cast." Another cheer erupted in the room.

"He didn't just say that," Holcomb muttered. "He did not just say that."

My hands itched to throttle him, but I kept my eyes on Sam. "Scott," the President began. His voice was low.

"Yes, sir?"

"Why are you putting Sam next to business?"

Holcomb looked taken aback. "Sir, I--"

"No, I'm just curious," he said, holding up a hand.

Holcomb's look was more determined than sheepish. "You read numbers as well as anyone, sir. Webb's going to win here. That's not a surprise. So why burn the DNC's bridges?"

"Josh." The President's expression didn't change, but there were tiny lines of tension around his eyes.

"Yes, sir," I said.

"Tell Toby to take over the campaign."

There was a flash of anger in Holcomb's eyes, and then they dropped to the floor. He pressed his lips together and stepped back. He walked around behind the President, and I could feel his glare hitting me right between the shoulder blades. "You're going to get creamed," he sneered in my direction.

I looked back toward the stage. Standing like a sentry behind Sam was one of those huge American flags you could find in every high school auditorium. He'd completely abandoned the teleprompter now and was making the introduction up as he went along, but it couldn't have been more perfect. Health care. The future of clean air and clean water. Pride in the administration's accomplishments, and the desire to scale even higher mountains. Underneath the lights his face shone, his cheekbones high and proud, his jaw angling down into a confident expression. I felt a twinge just behind my breastbone. I'm sorry, I said silently. I should have done better.

Sam leaned in toward the podium, his face earnest. "This district needs a Congressman who will work with President Bartlet for the right kind of change. A Congressman who will reach across the aisle to make a real difference for Orange County's families. If you send me, I promise that I will commit myself to doing just that."

There was another cheer from the audience, and Sam gave them another one of his winning smiles. Gathered off to the side of the auditorium, just within view, was a row of wide-eyed admirers. This was it, the magnetism that had every reporter eating out of his hand. It was Josiah Bartlet in a VFW hall in New Hampshire, all over again. My eyes dropped to the floor. I should have done better. Next time I would.

"And so, friends, the President of the United States." Sam turned toward us, smiling and applauding, and the cheers grew louder as the President walked out to meet him.

He smiled as he waved to greet the crowd, and grasped Sam's hand in a firm grip. As he began to speak, Sam stepped behind him, just off to his right, pride etched into his features. The message couldn't have been clearer if he'd stood up, shouting 'I support this President.' My heart swelled.

I threw a look over my shoulder. Holcomb was still there, standing in a corner by the wall with the communications guy. His back was turned, and from this far away their voices were nothing but low mumbles. But he was gesturing in big sweeping movements, and his neck was red.

I tore myself away from the stage and walked toward them. The communications guy looked up first, and then Holcomb turned around. His eyes were cold as they met mine. "You put him up to that."

I edged toward him, nerves tightening in my neck. A fist clenched at my side. "It's the President's role to step in when the guy in charge turns out to be incompetent." I tried to keep my voice level, but the accusation stabbed into him.

The red in his neck moved to his face. The communications guy turned pale and scuttled away, leaving me and Holcomb one on one. "Were you setting me up the whole time?" he said, his voice rising. "Are you trying to ruin my career?"

"Are you trying to ruin Sam's?" I hissed. I stepped closer, looming over him. "I told you to take care of things. I could have gotten somebody else, but I asked--"

"I took care of things!" His arms flew into the air, pushing me back. "Do you know how long it's going to take the OC Dems to recover from-- from that?" He pointed an accusing finger at the stage, contortions of disgust on his face. He shook his head. "We're talking about the whole goddamn party. This was just one guy. One lousy candidate who was never going to win anyway."

Rage pumped through my veins. One of my hands reached for Holcomb's collar, the other clutching at the buttons of his shirt. He stumbled backward, and I pressed him against the wall, my forehead almost touching his. "I told you to take care of *Sam*, you jackass," I said, my voice a low growl.

For a long moment he looked startled, and then he started to laugh. My fist tightened against his throat, transforming it into a cough. "What is it with you and this guy, Josh?"

My heart raced, my pulse pounding against my collar. His eyes were needling me, taunting. My hand faltered, and I let go.

Holcomb stumbled back, straightening his tie. His eyes were blazing. "You know, I never thought I'd see the day Josh Lyman would lose his head over a pretty boy from California."

I stepped back from him, but my gaze didn't waver. Shallow breaths rushed in and out of my lungs. Holcomb brushed himself off and walked out through the door, slamming it behind him.

I counted to four hundred before turning around. When I did, no one was looking.

###

SAM: FEBRUARY 23rd, 2003, 10:45 PM

What was left of my staff was crammed into the tiny room, crowded onto tables and chairs and squeezed into inches of floor space. Their combined breath had warmed the room to the point of discomfort, and the fresher air from the hallway failed to cover the sickly smells of sweat and fear.

"Now, I'm not going to lie to you," C.J. said, her voice clear but firm. She was leaning against the edge of the table, and Josh stood behind her off to one side, his hands shoved into the pockets of his suit. "None of this is going to be easy. Mr. Ziegler is going to take over the campaign manager and political director roles for the last week of the campaign, and the DNC is bringing in some of their people--Tim Corr and Lorena Domingo--to serve as the new financial director and communications director."

I leaned back against the door frame, pressing it against my spine, and surveyed the room. Jimmy was perched on a folding chair, his elbow planted on the table and his chin resting glumly on the palm of his hand. Elena and Karen were huddled together on the floor, their knees pressed to their chests, and Karen's gaze kept skittering over to me, searching my eyes for reassurance. My stomach knotted. They were kids, every last one of them. Kids were all I had left.

"The President and the rest of us need to go back to Washington tonight," C.J. continued, exchanging a quick glance with Josh.

In the commotion, I realized they hadn't even told me why they were leaving early. Some new development with Kundu, no doubt, or even just the tax plan. Either way, a sense of abandonment settled over me.

I looked into C.J.'s eyes, and she gave me a quick smile before leaning in toward the assembled staff. "But we'll be checking in every day, and at least a couple of us will be back for the election. The new team is full of some of the DNC's best people, but they can't do it without you. There are going to be a lot of things you know that the new people don't. Help them out. You're going to have to work even harder for this next week, but we know how much work you've done already, and we know you're equal to the task."

Karen looked back up at me, her eyes wide and anxious. I gave her what I hoped passed as a smile in response, but my thoughts were whirling, running through the list of candidates I knew who had replaced their entire campaign staff in the final hour. Dennis Jorgenson, in the Minnesota 12th. Kevin McPherson's one shot at a Senate seat in Missouri. Clarence Scofield's presidential primary run in '86. All of them had lost.

My eyes wandered out into the hall, and out of the corner of my eye I could see Holcomb at one of the desks out in the main room, stuffing a pair of tennis shoes into a gray duffel bag. The knot in my stomach tightened, and I turned to C.J. "Would you excuse me for a minute?"

A crease spread across her forehead, but she nodded, and I stepped out into the hall. Tom was already standing halfway out the door, staggering under the weight of a large cardboard box and a plastic grocery bag slung over his arm. I watched him walk through it, oblivious to my presence. Betsy had her back turned to me, leaning across another box, Scott at her side. Mark was nowhere to be found. All the moments of connection between Mark and me flashed through my mind. A sensation of betrayal shuddered across my skin, followed by a sense of loss.

Scott threw a glance down the hall, his gaze colliding with mine. He flinched, turning his back to me, and moved to the other side of Betsy. I pressed my lips together, loosening my tie, and walked toward them.

"There's just one thing I've got to know," I said, striding down the hall. I was struggling to keep my voice level.

Scott pushed his shoulders back, as if preparing himself for a fight. He turned toward me, his eyes cold, and sat down on the desk, his hands flat against it. "What's that?"

Betsy's arms were full of files, clasped against her chest like armor. "When exactly did you decide it wasn't worth trying to win?" I asked, giving my head a quick shake. "It had to have been before last week--that meeting after the Diaz debacle should have been all the tipoff I needed. But was it before the last debate? Before the first debate? Right from the start?"

He rolled his eyes. "Come on, Sam."

"I think you owe me that much of an explanation."

Betsy's gaze slid over to me, and then back to Scott. She lowered her stack of files into the half-packed box and grabbed it, propping it on her hip. "I guess I'll wait out at the car."

"I'll just be a minute," Scott said, giving her a nod. The door closed behind her. Scott folded his arms, his mouth set in an angry line. "You know, all the things they say about you? They're true." His contempt was plain, spread out in front of me like a peacock's tail.

"Oh, really?" I raised an eyebrow at him. "And what things would those be?"

He tossed a hand in the air. "You're smart enough, but you're naive as hell. You can't take direction worth a damn--you want to do everything on your own, even when it doesn't make any sense. And whenever you don't get your own way, you stomp your feet and throw a temper tantrum like a spoiled, pansy-ass child."

"I see." I sat down on the corner of the desk, letting his words wash over me, blow past me. "Well, then I've got one more question." Scott let out a snort, his lower lip distorting into a smirk. "If you knew all that, then why did you take this job in the first place? I mean, surely the great Scott Holcomb had his pick of offers."

"Your buddy called the DNC and asked for me." His voice was a shrug. "And I thought it might be a chance to do someth--"

"Wait." I leaned toward him. "My buddy?"

"Josh Lyman."

The name froze the blood in my veins, and the desk creaked beneath me. My throat tightened, a sharp pain running from the base of my neck to my jawline. My arms felt heavy. Numb.

Scott sniffed. "I don't know what else you guys are, but you sure are two of a kind. Can't stand to have anybody else running the show." He tossed his head back. "He was calling me every day, telling me to go after the Latino vote, to come out harder against the punches Webb was throwing. I kept asking him why he didn't--"

"So the Latino strategy, that was Josh's?" My head was spinning. "And Josh was trying to get us to hit back harder?"

His eyes narrowed into slits. "That's what I said."

I splayed a palm in the air in front of me and met Scott's eyes. "So you're saying all the things that actually worked were somebody else's idea. Do I have that right?"

He jerked back as if I'd hit him. He stood. "I don't need to take this."

"You know, a lot of things are suddenly making a lot more sense." My voice was tight.

"Look, if you really think you can win this district with a campaign like that, then be my guest." He tossed a hand in my direction, a throwaway gesture. "It's all yours now." He clenched a hand around the gray duffel and headed straight for the door. It slammed behind him, rattling in its frame.

Scott's words washed over me again, and I gripped the edge of the desk, staring down at the black dots on the linoleum. My eyes blurred. Josh couldn't have been running this. I'd talked to him maybe four times over the past three months, and each time it had been about White House business. He'd hardly shown an interest in this campaign.

I stood, and my hand lunged into my pocket, pulling out my cell phone, my thumb dialing the speed number for Will's cell. For a moment it occurred to me that it had to be pretty late in D.C., but by then it was already ringing. "Hello." His voice sounded muffled.

"It's Sam."

"Sam?" There was a rustling sound, followed by a small cough. "Is everything all right?" His voice was thin with sleep.

"Did Josh ask the DNC to install Scott Holcomb as my campaign manager?"

"Um, yeah," he mumbled.

I flinched away from his words, gripping the phone harder. I felt thrown, bruised around the edges.

"Wait." Will sounded more alert now, and suddenly frantic. "He didn't--"

"Thanks." I folded the phone shut. The activity light on its corner went dark, and with it my last sliver of control.

Everything that had been good about this campaign, it had been Josh's. Just like Silverstein, just like Bartlet, this one had been his, too. My head jerked up, and I threw a glance down the hall, white-hot rage swelling to a crest. The phone rang in my hand, and I threw it down onto the desk. It landed with a clank and skidded across it, hitting the wall.

I stalked back down the hall to the meeting room. Josh was standing in front now, gesturing, with C.J. beside him. "The Mexican-American vote is still where you're strongest, so Toby's going to be asking you to..." His voice trailed off. He looked up at me, and then everybody did.

"Can I talk to you for a second?" I pushed my words out through pinched lips.

He blinked. "Ah, sure." He looked back at the staff. "I'll be right back." He slipped around the edge of the table toward the door, his forehead creased.

My throat was raw, knots forming in my limbs. I threw open the door to the office across the hall, the one that had been Scott's. I stepped inside, throwing a glance around the room. Scott's desk had been cleared, and the files that had been left behind were scattered across the table in the far corner. The trash can was filled to overflowing. They were gone, and in a couple of hours everybody else would be, too.

The door closed behind us, and I spun around, staring at Josh. He was standing in front of the door, and I felt trapped by him, caged in. I leveled my gaze at him like a weapon.

Josh hunched down a little, wincing. "Okay, I'm sorry I used your coffee cup, but seriously, they all work pretty much the same." He tried to smile, but the effort distorted his face.

"Who's been running this campaign, Josh?" My voice was low, but sharp.

His face went slack, and a harsh look of realization seeped into his eyes. His chin set, resigned. He lowered himself into a chair, letting his head drop.

Another shock of anger jolted through me, flaying me raw. I stepped toward him and let out a sniff. "I should have known. That Latino strategy had your fingerprints all over it." My mind reached back to the beginning of the campaign, but all I could see was Josh. "How about the second set of ads? That was yours, too, wasn't it? And the Web fundraising plan?" His head was still down, the waves of his hair not quite covering the thin patch on the top of his head. I clenched a fist. "This one was supposed to be mine, Josh. Win or lose, it's not your campaign!"

Josh didn't move. From down the hall I could hear my phone ringing, rhythmic notes sounding out a series of three tinny tones, over and over again.

I stepped closer. "Are you just going to sit there?"

His head jerked up. His eyes met mine, but they were more determined than apologetic, and a muscle rippled in his jaw. "Do you want an office on Capitol Hill?"

There was a strange prickling at the base of my neck, sending shockwaves to the roots of my hair. "What?"

He held up a hand. "Because if you don't--if you're just doing this because you made a promise you never intended to have to keep--then I called this wrong, and I deeply, deeply apologize." He stood, moving closer, his eyes still holding onto mine. He nodded slowly, deliberately, his face earnest. "But if you can taste it with the tip of your tongue and you know there's no way that's gonna be enough, and I can call in a favor or two and help make it happen, then you bet your ass I'm gonna do it."

A sarcastic laugh shot out of me. "Right. You just wanted to help." The words froze me in place. He'd wanted to help. I retreated a little, my feet edging against Scott's desk, and I bit into the inside of my cheek. Josh had wanted to help, and he had.

Josh drew closer, inches from me, and a spark of electricity shot through me, like stepping on a wire. My pulse sped up, my heart thundering in my chest. "Holcomb..." His eyes dropped for a moment, and the cleft in his chin quivered. "I should have gotten Toby in the first place. Or-- or somebody else. And that-- I'm sorry." He ran a hand through the curls at the base of his neck, dipping his head down to catch my gaze. "But I'm not going to apologize for doing this. It might just be the most important thing I've ever done."

I rocked back, reeling under the weight of Josh's faith in me. This was the guy who'd put Josiah Bartlet in the Oval Office. I reached behind me to the desk, steadying myself against it.

His Adam's Apple rippled in his throat. "It's time. There's nothing left for you in the White House right now. This is what you need to be doing." His voice was heavy with the words, as if he'd been waiting the whole time he'd known me to say them.

A wave of confusion washed over me. I tried to blink it away, but it lingered, clouding my vision. I'd been so sure I wanted to do this one thing without Josh leading me around like a puppy, but now that seemed childish and irrational. I pressed a hand against my stomach. Every time I thought I'd found my own footing, Josh was there, throwing everything off-balance again.

My gaze fell to the floor. "I need to think."

For a long moment, Josh stood there, watching. I could feel his eyes on me, nudging me to look back up, but I closed mine, blocking him out. He let out a slow breath and pulled the door closed behind him.

###

JOSH, MARCH 4th, 2003, 8:22 PM

"With only twenty percent of the precincts reporting, it's too early to call yet." The surfer-boy voice of the television anchor floated down the hallway. "But at this point in time, Congressman Charles Webb is leading challenger Samuel Seaborn forty-one to thirty-four in the race to claim the California 47th Congressional district."

A collective moan sounded from the room at the end of the hall. "Come on," I said, giving Donna a nudge in the arm with my garment bag and walking a little faster. She followed, her suitcase rumbling against the carpet behind me.

I came to a stop in the doorway, surveying the room. They had a projection screen set up, and Sam's staff and various volunteers were huddled around it, their expressions anxious, but still greedy with hope. Sam was standing in the doorway leading out onto the balcony, flanked by Toby on one side and his mom on the other. His eyes were fixed on the television. He didn't look up.

"We're not that far behind," one girl said. "We could still bounce back." A murmur of assent rippled through the crowd, and Sam's mom put a hand on his arm. My heart fluttered in my chest. This was always the hardest part, admitting you'd lost.

Donna leaned her suitcase against the wall and tilted her head toward Sam. "I'm going to..."

"Yeah," I croaked, and she gave me a little smile. My eyes followed her as she wove her way through the crowd. Toby shuffled away a step to make room for her at Sam's side, and she placed a hand on his elbow. The stress momentarily left his face, and he pulled her toward him in a tight embrace. Over his shoulder his eyes scanned the room, snagging on mine. I gave him a stiff little wave. He acknowledged it with a nod and gave Donna another squeeze.

My eyes darted around me, searching for an escape hatch. Off to the left was a little room, unlit, but a window allowed it a full view of the big room. Hitching my garment bag up higher on my shoulder, I stepped over boxes and bodies and squeezed toward it.

An oak table dominated the tiny room, and in the corner was a chair with a couple of jackets on it and a little TV set tuned to the local news. I stepped inside, tossing a glance through the window leading into the big room. Donna linked her arm through Sam's, and both of their gazes were pinned to the screen. I set my garment bag down and claimed one of the chairs, turning it toward the TV in the corner. The local anchor was a blond, blue-eyed guy with his hair trimmed short, and he was saying something about the voting history of the 47th.

"Mr. Lyman?"

I glanced back at the door. A skinny kid was standing there, dressed in a dark blue suit that looked more like 'Sunday best' than 'business casual.' A jagged row of pimples dotted his forehead. It was Buffkin. "Hey," I said, giving him a little nod.

"I'm Jimmy Buffkin. I-- I wanted to introduce myself-- I mean, I tried to last week, but..." His hands twitched in front of him, folding over each other. "Well, you know."

"Yeah, things were a little crazy," I said, rising from my seat. I leaned over, giving his hand a shake. "Good to meet you." The chair rolled against the table as I sat back down.

He shoved a hand into one pocket of his suit, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. "It was great that you could make it back out. I mean, the White House, a little Congressional race." He moved his hands back and forth in the air in front of him in a juggling motion. "There's not much of a contest."

"I wouldn't have missed it," I said, my eyes wandering back over to Sam. Toby was leaning in to talk to him now, and Sam gave him a little nod and looked back over at the television. Toby would have been saying something reassuring, but still realistic--he always managed to strike the right note with that kind of thing. I felt a pull toward them, but I tore my gaze away, rooting myself to the chair.

"I've been thinking about what you said," the kid said. His voice was hushed, like he was sharing a secret. "You know, about how we should have come out stronger when it came to the things Sam really stands for." His face contracted with annoyance. "And I really think you were right. I should have taken that idea to Mr. Holcomb."

I pushed a sigh out through my nose. That was ancient history now. I waved a dismissive hand at him. "It's okay."

"I wanted to let you know, though, that you really taught me a lot." His face was earnest, but my eyes wandered back out into the big room. Donna was talking to Sam's mom, both of them almost, but not quite managing a smile. Sam himself had stepped back a little, as if trying to distance himself from the inevitable. The light from the screen gave his face an eerie glow, pale and ghostly. He looked unreal, like I was imagining him there.

I heard Buffkin's voice trail off, and I looked back up at him. The look on his face was sheepish, like he'd realized I wasn't really listening. I glanced back at the projection screen. The anchor had a hand on his earpiece, adjusting it. "We've now got just over half of the precincts reporting in the race for the California 47th Congressional district, and we can report that Congressman Webb has climbed to forty-two percent of the vote, with the Democratic challenger, Samuel Seaborn, holding steady at thirty-four. Seaborn is a key advisor to President Bartlet--"

"We're gonna lose, aren't we?" There was a tremor in the kid's voice.

My gaze jumped back over to Sam. His expression was grim as a funeral. He'd have been letting go of the possibility of winning just about now, and with Sam that sort of thing never went well. Donna's eyes caught on mine, and she motioned for me to come out. I shook my head, holding up a hand. "It ain't over 'til it's over," I said with a shrug, glancing up at Buffkin.

Donna gave Sam's arm a squeeze and strode back over toward the door. Almost instantly she appeared behind Buffkin, narrowing her eyes at me. "You flew three thousand miles for this. Don't tell me you're going to spend the whole evening in a dark little room by yourself."

I leaned back, stretching out my legs. "I'd get up, but this chair is incredible. The cushion, it's amazing. You're gonna have to order me one for my office."

Donna folded her arms, rolling her eyes up to the ceiling. The Buffkin kid grinned.

"Seriously, you don't mess with comfort like this," I insisted.

Donna looked up at Buffkin and tilted her head toward the door. Buffkin gave her a stiff smile and took the hint. "It was great to finally meet you, sir," he said to me.

I nodded at him. "You, too."

He ducked back out into the room, and Donna stepped in. She lowered herself against the corner of the table. "How's he doing?" I asked, my voice quiet.

"He's tired." She glanced out at Sam through the window. "And still hoping for a miracle."

My eyes followed Donna's. Sam's expression was a mirror image of his mother's--fear colored by the hope neither one of them could quite shake. It was just one race, but tonight it was going to feel like the whole world to him. I swallowed. "He's gonna be okay?"

"I think so."

Sam looked up at us through the glass, giving us a tight-lipped smile. He was trying so hard to look indifferent, and I felt drawn toward him again, like some asteroid in orbit around Planet Sam. I wrapped both hands around the arms of the chair.

"We've got seventy percent of the precincts reporting now in the battle over California's forty-seventh Congressional district." The anchor's voice came in a makeshift surround sound, from the little television behind us and the big one out in the room. A rumble of conversation spread through the crowd, and the little Mexican-American intern stood up, shushing everyone, her eyes fierce. "And we can now call the race for Republican Congressman Charles Webb. The final tally is fifty-two to forty-three."

The intern's hand froze in mid-gesture. Everyone in the room held onto a collective breath, as if waiting for permission to let go. No one spoke.

Slowly, I turned my head toward Sam, just in time to watch his face fall.

A cold fist clenched around my heart, and my back tensed against my chair. My own first taste of defeat came tumbling through my mind: a rented auditorium in lower Manhattan, Silverstein for Senate posters lining the walls, my hand wrapped around cup after cup of cheap beer until the loss almost stopped hurting. I'd wanted to turn back time, force the story to end differently. But more than anything, I'd wanted Sam there that night. Almost eighteen years later, the memory still burned.

The picture on the projection screen shifted from the blond anchor to a reporter with a big smile. The room behind her was choked with jubilant Webb supporters, and anger flooded my chest. "How are things looking out there in Newport Beach, Charlotte?" the anchor asked in voiceover.

The intern wielded the TV remote like a grenade, her arm forming a shadow across the screen. A dozen REELECT CHUCK signs waved behind it. "Well, Kevin, I think everybody here is pretty well--" The television clicked off in a burst of static, and the intern lowered the remote again, a look of disgust on her face. For a long moment it looked like she was going to hurl it at the screen, but then she tossed it onto a table and ducked her head down.

Toby gave Sam a quick hug, and another guy I didn't recognize shook his hand. A brief, tight smile crossed his lips, then slipped away again. My stomach churned.

"You should go in there." Donna said.

I shook my head. "No, but *you* should. A candidate should be with his people." I snagged her gaze, lowering my voice. "You did a good job on this, you know." An unspoken thanks hung in the air.

"So did you," she said automatically.

My eyes fell to the table. "Scott Holcomb--"

"Okay, Josh, if you try to blame this on Scott Holcomb, I'm going to have you thrown off of that balcony over there." Her voice was as harsh as I'd ever heard it, and I looked back up at her. She leaned in toward me. The whites of her eyes were streaked with red, and her hair fell across her face like a curtain. "When I first told you I thought Sam should run, you told me this race just wasn't winnable. Well, it turns out you were right. But you had him even with Webb for almost a week, and you'd better start being proud of that."

I turned my eyes back to the room. Sam was out on the balcony now, his hair rumpled by the wind coming up from the ocean, his hand wrapped around his cell phone. He was conceding. His mom stood beside him, her face streaked with tears, and the Mexican intern was out there with them, but she was facing the water, her shoulders slumped. Next time it'll be different, I thought at Sam. I promise.

"You did good by him, too." Donna's voice was softer now. She stood, tilting her head toward the door again. "And you really should go in there. A candidate should be with his people."

A wave of warmth spread through my chest, crowding out the guilt. I stood and followed her in.

###

SAM, MARCH 4th, 2003, 8:45 PM

Mom dabbed at her eyes, and Tim leaned in toward her, speaking in low, comforting tones. The voices from inside were muted, and everyone's eyes kept straying out to the balcony, as if searching for their own pain on my face. I turned away from them, pressing my stomach against the metal railing. The waves swayed back and forth below us, hissing against the enormous rock a few hundred yards from shore. It was an exercise in futility, crashing into the same knotted surface over and over again, but never stirring it.

A sob ripped from Elena's throat. Her fists were wrapped around the railing, and she kicked it soundly, sending a ringing sound out across the water.

The wind bit at my face. I gestured at her foot. "But on the plus side, your karate lessons seem to be paying off." I tried to smile, but my face felt stiff.

"Why does this hurt so bad?" Her voice was almost a wail.

My stomach lurched. "Well, maybe if you didn't kick it quite so--"

"I mean, it's so stupid. I knew the numbers. I just kept expecting a miracle anyway." She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "It was the undecideds. I mean, it's happened before, right? Where the undecideds all swing with the underdog in the end and there's an upset win. There was Reagan in 1982, and David Obey's special Congressional election in 1969." She was sniffling. "And Bartlet in 2002."

The salt wind pushed my hair flat against my face. I turned away. He'd told me I'd run for President someday. This wasn't exactly the most auspicious start. I turned back toward Elena, injecting enthusiasm into my voice. "See, now, there's somebody who won't be disappointed tonight."

Elena swallowed, sniffling. She wiped the end of her nose with an index finger, and a tear slid down her face and into her mouth. "President Bartlet?"

For three months I hadn't thought about how it would feel to go back there, but now it hit me like a hurricane, and my knees buckled under the weight. With the same old job, it wouldn't matter that it was a brand new me. I slapped a hand against my chest in an exaggerated gesture. "What, you think he'd have wanted to lose the best speechwriter he's ever had? Why, I'm hurt."

She scowled, looking back out against the water. Short black strands of hair lashed her cheeks, and she shoved them back with a hand.

"You know, you should think about applying for something in Washington. Interning in the White House is more than just the mailroom. I could--"

She threw me a burning look, cutting me off. "If you don't stop trying to cheer me up, I might just have to kick you next." Her lower lip was quivering.

"Hey."

Only my own voice was more familiar. I looked up.

Josh's face was solemn, but he leaned in toward me, cocooning me, and a knot loosened in my shoulders. I wanted him here. I didn't know what to do with that, but I did. "Hey," I answered, not quite meeting his eyes.

Toby tilted his head toward the room, a hand on the door frame. Elena, Tim, and Mom walked inside, as if in formation, and Toby laid a calming hand on Mom's back, easing her inside. "You've got about five," Toby said to me.

I nodded. "Thanks."

Donna met Elena at the door, and through the window I could see them hugging, Elena's face buried in Donna's chest. Jimmy Buffkin stood behind them, his eyes red-rimmed and wet with disappointment. I'd disappointed them. My shoulders knotted again. "Thanks for coming. I wish I had better news."

Josh leaned against the railing with a forearm. His hand reached toward me, tensed, and then dropped. "How are you feeling?"

I tried to smile. "Oh, a little like I just accused God of tax evasion on national television."

Josh snorted. "Hey, this is no meeting with Mary Marsh!"

"You mean you didn't fly her out to join the party?" I let the corner of my mouth quirk.

Josh rolled his eyes. "It's me, Sam, okay?" He leaned in toward me. "You can drop the comedy act."

Slowly, I turned around, looking down at the water. The waves rushed the sand in a useless, wasted maneuver, and retreated again. "Do you remember the night Silverstein lost?"

"Yeah." His voice was a little rough. "Well, most of it, anyway." His mouth turned up in a half-smile. "My memories get a little fuzzy after about ten o'clock."

I swallowed, unpacking the memory. Lisa had spent that night at my old place in Durham, back before I'd moved in with her, and we'd heard the results on the national news, from a sterile distance. The words had struck me like a thunderclap around my ears, and in the shadow of losing Josh, it had felt like a whole year of my life had been rendered pointless. Lisa and I had sought solace in each other, but afterward a drunken phone call from Josh had pressed in on my world, and he'd slurred out that if I'd only stayed in New York, we could have won. I reeled with the thought of it, my fingers tight around the railing. In that flash of a moment everything had fallen apart again, and it had taken another year to put it all back together.

I turned back toward the building, my gaze skittering inside. Elena was with Lorena now, and Toby was talking to Tim. Karen lifted a bottle of beer to her mouth, downing it in one gulp, her face pale. I pointed at them. "You know, those are good people in there."

"They are."

"They worked as hard as I've seen anybody work, for a goal that wasn't any nobler than trying to put me in office. Because they wanted me to come away from tonight as Congressman Seaborn." The words stung my throat. Could have been. Might have been.

"And you feel like you let them down." His voice was gentle.

"Didn't I?" I dropped my eyes, tracing the wood-grain in the deck with my foot. A gust of salt wind assaulted me from behind, and I pulled my jacket around me. "That intern's one of the smartest kids I've met in twenty years, and she thought we had a chance, right up until about fifteen minutes ago." I coughed. "Hell, so did I."

"Nobody blames you, Sam. You ran a great campaign."

"Right." I leaned back against the railing, tilting my head upward. Clouds blackened the sky, the stars so dim I couldn't see them. "And I only lost by nine points. So it's all good."

Suddenly his hand was on my arm, just above my elbow. It was warm and strong, and I swallowed, tilting my head back down. Josh's expression was hopeful, like an open door inviting me in. My eyes drew away and then snaked back again, meeting his.

I stepped away from him, wrapping my arm around myself, leaving it heavy where his hand had been. A wave crashed against the rocks below. "You know, I really thought I was back on track. You said it yourself--there's nothing left for me in the White House. I know there's a promotion waiting for me, but it still feels a little too much like living my life in reverse."

"You're not going back." His voice was steady.

My laugh rattled in the air between us. "So you've got me moving into in my mother's basement? Maybe I should get a cat and start living off of fishsticks and TV dinners."

He shook his head slowly. "They were running stories on your campaign in local papers as far north as Yreka. All four major networks covered you, and not just tonight. You got an endorsement from every major Democrat in California. People love you." Josh edged closer along the railing, his eyes sparkling. "Hell, even the people who voted for Webb love you--they've just got their heads shoved far enough up their asses that they can't bring themselves to do anything but vote the party line. You were a statewide candidate, Sam. A statewide candidate in a district race."

My heart stuttered. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that you never had a chance at the 47th, but you can take California in a heartbeat. I'm saying that when Jenkins announces her retirement, you're going to be right here to run for her Senate seat. And in the meantime, you'll write op-eds for the L.A. Times and the San Francisco Chronicle. You'll get your picture taken with the Senator as her heir apparent. You'll speak at UCLA and San Francisco State. You'll get endorsements and backers in line. You'll address the California Dems at their annual meeting."

Josh's words washed over me, seeping into my pores. A road unfurled in front of me, wide and long, turning my dead-end road into an endless desert highway.

Josh stepped around to face me, his breath warm against my cheek. "Scott Holcomb or no Scott Holcomb, you ran a clean campaign. You ran a Seaborn campaign. And no, you didn't win, but the groundwork is there. It's a foundation for something bigger." Muscles strained against Josh's neck, and his eyes were cavernous, pulling me in. "You're the real thing. You're one of those once-in-a-lifetime guys who can change the course of rivers and spin straw into gold. You're gonna change hundreds of thousands of lives. And I'm gonna help make it happen." His gaze faltered. "If-- if you'll have me."

Josh thought I could run for Senate. He thought I could run for Senate, and he wanted help me do it. I tore my eyes away and looked back out at the water. Another wave nipped at the rock, and as it cleared, a few of the knots gave way to the start of smooth curves. The wind whistled in my ears as I watched the wave calm. It might take thousands of years, but it kept on trying.

"Sam." It was Toby, and I turned toward the door. His expression was even. "There's a hall full of people waiting for you to say something inspiring."

I gave him a little smile. "Well, then it's a good thing you're the guy who wrote the speech." Toby slipped back inside, and I glanced at Josh, lowering my voice. "You know, I..." Gratitude swept through me like a fever, mingling with something older, something stronger. "Thank you."

Josh's eyebrows shot up, sending a crease across his forehead. His throat bobbed up and down.

"I'm glad you were here. Both tonight, and just...generally." He was so close that we were breathing the same air. "Even though I didn't always realize you were."

He looked shaken, his eyes wide enough to engulf both past and future. He tried on a grin. "Ah, I was actually in Washington. Maybe that's why I wasn't pinging your radar."

My heart jumped, then swelled, and then my arms were around him. Our bodies slid together like two stray pieces of a puzzle, his hand at the small of my back. His touch seared me like a branding iron, and my arms dropped again, but he curled toward me, burying his face in my hair. Through the glass I could see the group clearing the room, heading out through the door into the hallway. Karen's gaze snagged on mine as she walked past.

Josh drew in a long breath, then let go, pulling me back to arm's length. His eyes were red, but he gave me his most winning smile. "Go on. Go give those people something to hope for."

I pulled back the rest of the way, my throat burning, and stepped toward the door. I glanced up at Toby. His expression was solemn. "You ready?" he asked.

I couldn't speak. I gave him a stiff nod and followed him out of the room, into the brick-lined hallway, and down the stairs. Mom was behind me, flanked by Tim and Lorena. With every step I felt a greater sense of purpose, a compass leading me into the future.

The spotlight glowed just beyond the edge of the stage, and behind the curtain, just out of sight, a woman's voice was talking about my sense of honor. I took a step closer, and the voice revealed itself as Senator Martha Jenkins, standing tall and proud, her short white curls pale under the lights. Shock jolted through me, and I turned to Toby. "Did you do this?"

His mouth didn't budge, but his eyes shone with a smile. "I had a little help."

I turned back to face her, incredulous, and at the sound of my name ringing through the auditorium, I pushed out onto the stage. Twin spotlights bathed me in warmth, and a groundswell of applause rolled out across a deafening cheer. Jenkins' hand was in mine, the loose wrinkles around her mouth folding into a slight smile. She placed a hand on my arm, nodded, and stepped back.

I could sense Toby behind me, strong and solid. On the other side was Mom, and I turned to face her. Her eyes were still shining, but she gave me her widest, strongest smile. Everything I felt for her ran together like colors on a spinning disc, and the tension between us disappeared behind a thunder of applause. I reached for her, clasping her hand between mine. "Thank you," I mouthed. She beamed.

The whole room was on its feet. Turning back to face the crowd, I stepped up to the podium. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

A banner unfolded a few rows back: We love you, Sam!, and a knot twisted in my throat. "Thank you, Senator Jenkins, for that very kind and generous introduction, and thank all the rest of you for being here tonight. It really means so much." I glanced up at the teleprompter, Toby's words glowing white against the black background. "Earlier this evening, I spoke to Congressman Webb," I began, "and I offered him my congratulations on his victory. I wish him well."

From somewhere in the back there was a loud booing, and I held up a hand. The voice silenced, and I steadied myself against the podium. Signs dipped and danced between the faces of the crowd: ELECT SAM. Seaborn for Congress. At the back of the room, a figure was slipping in along the back wall, just behind the row of cameras. The curve of his back was familiar. Josh.

"When I decided to run for Congress, I made it my goal to bring you the best of what politics can be." My voice echoed through the room, ringing from the speakers. "That meant working together to build a society that is inclusive, tolerant, and just. That meant striving to meet the needs of all Americans: regardless of race, regardless of age, regardless of level of income. That meant recognizing that strength and wisdom, and that unity and diversity are not opposites, but threads bound together in this great American tapestry."

Another cheer sounded. The front row was a blur of familiar faces: Karen, Jimmy, Tim, Elena.

I let the cheer die down and looked up at the teleprompter again. "Although we did not win tonight..."

Past the words on the screen, past the ocean of bodies in the auditorium, there was Josh. He leaned against the back wall, folding his arms. He caught my eyes and held them, and the noise around me dimmed like a switch, narrowing the room to just the two of us.

Suddenly my own words were on my tongue. I turned away from the teleprompter, toward the crowd. "My friends, tonight is not the end," I said, ad libbing. "Our campaign office may be closing its doors, but our efforts to make this community and this country everything they can be-- those efforts are just beginning."

The cheer unfolded slowly, like a flower, and grew to a deafening pitch. Josh's face spread into a smile. I would do this. We would do it together.

"If you can take only one thing home with you tonight, ladies and gentlemen, I want that to be the same sense of hope you've been carrying with you for the past three months. Because California hasn't seen the last of Sam Seaborn."

Strident cheers rose around me, first in the auditorium, then from behind me. The edges of the spotlight glowed against the stage. In the back, Josh gave me a thumbs-up sign, grinning.