The McCall Initiative: Episode 12

By Lisa Nowak

After four long months, Piper’s on her way to rescue her family from FreedomCorp, accompanied by an elite team assembled by President Cooper. But with Logan’s father responsible for her family’s deportation, Piper faces a disturbing dilemma. What if the return to normal life she’s desperately awaiting means the end of her relationship with the only boy she’s ever loved?

President Cooper faces his own challenge with Piper and Logan gone. His PTSD, barely manageable under the best circumstances, has spiraled out of control. Now he’s questioning whether he has any business remaining in office. And he’s not the only one. Though Sarto has disappeared, his co-conspirators are determined to see the president unseated.

It’s when the rescue mission concludes, however, that the real trouble begins. Its repercussions threaten not just Cooper, Piper, and Logan—but the entire nation of Cascadia. And unless the president can overcome his traumas, no one will have a chance at peace.

The McCall Initiative is a story told in serial form. If you’re a fan of edge-of-your-seat dystopian thrillers with a twist of romance, you’ll love Lisa Nowak’s glimpse at a future that’s all too plausible. Great for fans of The Hunger Games, Divergent, and Legend.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Webfoot Publishing
• Release date: Sep 24, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005361341

Lisa Nowak

In addition to being a YA author, Lisa Nowak is a retired amateur stock car racer, an accomplished cat whisperer, and a professional smartass. She writes coming-of-age books about kids in hard luck situations who learn to appreciate their own value after finding mentors who love them for who they are. She enjoys dark chocolate and stout beer and constantly works toward employing wu wei in her life, all the while realizing that the struggle itself is an oxymoron.Lisa has no spare time, but if she did she’d use it to tend to her expansive perennial garden, watch medical dramas, take long walks after dark, and teach her cats to play poker. For those of you who might be wondering, she is not, and has never been, a diaper-wearing astronaut. She lives in Milwaukie, Oregon, with her husband, several feline companions, and two giant sequoias.

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Dedication

The episode is dedicated to the memory of Ruth Bader Ginsburg. And to those who fight for liberty and justice FOR ALL.

Cascadia, 2063

Previously in The McCall Initiative

(Episode 11)

After the rebels overthrow Sarto at his campaign rally, and he escapes by boat, Jefferson and the kids are taken to Pittock Mansion, which has been secured by the military. There, they discover Sarto’s laptop, and on it they find a spreadsheet that details where all the kidnapped citizens were sent. Vice President Mendoza, a Sarto appointee, agrees to fully cooperate and reveals that Logan’s father was sent to the Tulsa FreedomCorp facility, where Piper’s family is being held. Jefferson insists on putting together a rescue party to retrieve them. Sam and General Nye caution against this, fearing the ramifications when the public discovers Jefferson risked war with the US and favored Piper’s family over the other kidnapped citizens.

Though Jefferson’s PTSD has left him uneasy around the members of Congress who aided the rebellion, he works with them, Sam, and Logan to select a new administration and staff. Logan is surprised to be allowed to help. The next day, Congress votes to reinstate Jefferson. He hires Logan’s mother, Olivia, as his press secretary and begins the difficult process of undoing Sarto’s damage.

Though Dr. Alvarez is impressed by how well Jefferson has recovered from the infection that nearly killed him, she declares that he has a long way to go and strictly limits his schedule. She also sets him up with a prosthetist. Paulette begins fitting him for a prosthesis but informs him that without reconstructive surgery, he’ll never be able to walk without pain

Surveillance video fails to reveal any leads on Sarto, and the information on his laptop proves insufficient to incriminate his allies, including Marcella Pascal, who’s meddling in Jefferson’s attempts to restore the country. As wildfires continue to ravage Cascadia, with a new one springing up close to Portland, protests begin over Jefferson’s reinstatement. Even simple matters like the assignment of new Secret Service agents prove taxing. After all, Jefferson’s old agents attacked and abducted him. Though he successfully navigates all these challenges, Piper worries because he has yet to tell Dr. Alvarez about his flashbacks, and she can’t do so herself without breaking her promise.

Logan is surprised when he’s encouraged to work closely with the president, assisting him through the transition. Though he’s reluctant to give up this role and go back to normal life, Piper looks forward to a return to boring. She soon realizes, however, that in order to regain her family, she’ll be forced to leave Jefferson behind. It’s a disheartening idea further complicated by her inability to let go of her role as Jefferson’s caretaker, despite advice from both him and Dr. Alvarez that it’s time to move on with her life.

Over the next few days, Zoey’s heart surgery is scheduled for early October, Piper notices that Olivia seems cold toward her, and Jefferson starts the Jordie Bosco Foundation for Magnusson-Bell Syndrome research. He also pledges to petition Congress for additional funding.

When US President Kovach refuses to admit that Cascadians are being detained in FreedomCorp factories, Jefferson moves ahead with the rescue mission. Piper insists on going along, and Logan, remorseful for not supporting her earlier attempt to save her family, vows to accompany her. Though Major Becke is not please with this idea, she relents when Jefferson backs the kids.

Becke explains that the rescue party will be made up of three teams. Team Alpha, consisting of herself, Sergeant First Class Jorgensen, and Logan, will enter FreedomCorp posing as a destitute family. Once they find Piper’s family and Logan’s father, they’ll signal Team Beta, who will rescue them. Team Charlie will wait at a rendezvous point to assist in transporting everyone home.

As the rescue mission draws closer, Piper and Logan worry over how Jefferson will cope when they’re gone. Though he’s successfully meeting the challenges of his office, he seems to be relying heavily on Logan’s presence. Dr. Alvarez assures Piper she’ll look after him.

The day before they’re scheduled to leave, Jefferson holds a remembrance ceremony for those lost in the fight against Sarto. He delivers a heartfelt speech in Tom McCall Waterfront Park then holds a meet and greet with the family members of the victims. Marcella Pascal confronts him, delivering a veiled threat toward the kids and revealing that she knows Logan has been working closely with the president. Her presence puts Jefferson on edge, and when the Secret Service intervene, it spikes his anxiety even further—something that Pascal notices.

Back at Pittock, Jefferson demands to know how she found out about Logan working with him. Logan speculates Pascal could’ve guessed or learned from videoconference footage, but Jefferson isn’t convinced. He fears they have a leak.

The next day, Logan spends the morning in Jefferson’s office, knowing it’s his final chance to do so. Later, he asks Zoey to keep Jefferson company while he and Piper are gone. Becke arrives with the team, and everyone says their goodbyes. As the rescue party leaves, Piper expresses her disbelief that they’re finally on their way, while Logan wonders how the reunion with his father will affect her.

Chapter 1

Piper

With my hand cocooned in the comfort of Logan’s fingers, I crane my neck to look over the seatback of our SUV—the vehicle that’ll take him into FreedomCorp to rescue his dad and my family. I should be excited. I should be overjoyed. But as I catch a glimpse of Jefferson, the man I never expected to become my friend, standing under the portico, I have to dig through a heap of distress and heartache to get at those feelings.

This morning was the last time I’ll wake up in Pittock Mansion, the last time I’ll eat breakfast with the president, the last time he’ll tell me I need to stop worrying about him and start focusing on myself. From this point forward, I’ll be lucky to spend a few minutes with him after my apprenticeship at the Pittock Medical Center on Wednesday and Friday afternoons.

I keep watching until we round the bend and the trees close in, disappearing Jefferson from view. Something sharp and sad pinches in my chest, but it’s pointless to keep looking back. Not when I’m finally getting what I’ve wanted for so long. I turn to stare through the windshield.

As Logan’s fingers pulse gently against mine, my brain scrabbles to latch onto the unbelievable reality that after all these weeks, these months, these failures, we’re on our way. This isn’t just a hope anymore. It’s not just a dream. It’s actually going to happen. I’m going to feel Mom’s arms around me, hear Grandpa spouting his conspiracy theories, and see my brother’s eyes, bright with excitement, as he gets caught up in one of those wild stories he tells.

The guard shack emerges from the forest of big leaf maple and Douglas fir. The gate whisks back to let us through. We wind down Pittock Drive, Pittock Avenue, and then Barnes Road until we reach Burnside, where the SUV bumps over Portland’s ubiquitous potholes. I think about how I used to blame Jefferson for those, along with everything else that’s wrong with the city, and my eyes prickle. It’s so hard to believe that just a few months ago, I hated him. How is that even possible?

In the front seat, Major Becke and Staff Sergeant Jorgensen are talking about the route, ignoring Logan and me. Becke didn’t want us on this mission. She especially didn’t want Logan going into FreedomCorp with her and Jorgensen. Jefferson wasn’t thrilled about it either, but he understood why I need it to be this way. After everything that’s happened, I can’t just sit safe at home, leaving this to someone else and hoping for the best. There won’t be anything I can do from the base the soldiers plan to set up in some abandoned farmhouse outside Tulsa, but at least I’ll be close. At least I’ll be in the loop. And there’s no doubt I can trust Logan to bring my family back to me.

The forested flanks of the West Hills give way to downtown skyscrapers. We cruise between them until we reach the Burnside Bridge, where the view opens up to reveal a hazy horizon. My insides curdle at the ugly column of smoke rising in the east. Our beloved Columbia River Gorge, burning.

It’s been a hot, dry summer on top of a warm, dry spring. The only real relief was a couple of misty weeks back in May, right around the time my family disappeared. My thoughts wander to that night and the days that followed. Bailey spiriting me away to the White Eagle. Logan and Zoey catching me when I went home to get Grandpa’s journals. The nail-biting mission to bust Jefferson out of the Benson. And the overwhelming burden of holding the president’s life in my hands …

The next thing I know, I’m back to worrying about him. About his overwhelming guilt, and the flashbacks he’s so scared will hammer him again. Everyone’s told me he’s not my responsibility anymore. Sam, Dr. Alvarez, even Jefferson himself. But I’m not sure I can let go.

I try to focus on the things that are different now. The giant step he took, telling Dr. Alvarez about the PTSD. The sleep meds she prescribed for the insomnia that magnifies his stress and fatigue. And most of all, the promise she made to watch out for him. I know I can trust her. I guess I just need to keep reminding myself of that.

A long sigh seeps out of me, and Logan squeezes my hand. I turn to face him, getting a little jolt because I’m still not used to the buzz cut and dye job that’s supposed to keep his dad from recognizing him and blowing his cover. But when he gives me that all-will-be-well smile that’s absolutely, undeniably Logan, it grounds me.

He’s so solid. So reliable. So patient. I return a smile before sinking against him and resting my head on his shoulder. Our lives are going to be totally different once this mission is over. Better, but different. And as much as I’ve been looking forward to that, it also scares me. It’s a relief to know that the one thing I’ll always be able to count on is how Logan and I feel about each other.

Chapter 2

Jefferson

As the SUVs lumber down the narrow asphalt drive, I feel as though they’re towing a piece of me along with them. I watch long after the vehicles round the corner, long after they disappear, and a familiar tightness begins to kindle behind my ribs.

Is this a mistake? Should I have forbidden Logan from joining the team that will infiltrate FreedomCorp? Insisted he and Piper stay here? What if Sam and General Nye are right, and by allowing this mission, I’ve sealed the fate of the other kidnapped citizens?

I draw a deep breath to silence these persistent fears. I’ve been over this time and again, always to convince myself of one thing: the evidence we gain will strengthen our case against FreedomCorp. President Kovach and the American public may have written off the Fujimotos’ report, but no one will be able to discount the testimony of five additional civilians and several members of the Cascadian Army. Besides, I owe this to Piper. It was my negligence, my naiveté, that tore her family away from her. The least I can do is see to their safe return.

My chief of staff clears his throat, and I barely conceal the faint fight-or-flight tremor triggered by the noise. I loathe this jumpiness—this inability to hide my anxiety and irrational distrust—nearly as much as I loathe what I’ve done to Piper and the other 378 families Sarto deported. I should be able to overcome my weaknesses. To move past these ridiculous fears and get on with the business of righting my prodigious wrongs.

I’ll be in my office, Mr. President, Sam says, ever conscious of protocol despite having known me since my greenhorn days. Please text me after your nap.

I cringe inwardly at his final word. It’s a concept that simultaneously renders me a toddler and an old man. I can’t say whether I more despise its necessity, or my secret gratitude at being forced into it. God knows I’d be the basket case Piper and Dr. Alvarez believe me to be if it weren’t for that forty-five minutes of blissful stillness each afternoon.

Mrs. Fujimoto, whose husband accompanied the rescue party, bids us goodbye. As she leaves, I follow Sam and the others inside. Lawson materializes the moment I step into the lobby, cat-radar finely tuned. It’s his sacred duty to supervise my sleep.

As Sam, Olivia, and Zoey veer toward the elevator, I set course for the marble staircase, taking advantage of the opportunity to wedge a bit more PT into my relentless schedule. Even with Piper gone, I refuse to allow the knife in my leg to hold me hostage. Each step receives my full weight, my limp concealed as much as possible. The walls in this place have literal eyes—at least in the form of staff and Secret Service agents—and I’ll be damned if I’ll provide evidence that might be forged into yet another argument for surgery.

When we reach the second floor, Lawson dashes ahead into the room that once belonged to Henry Pittock. Purr-motor rumbling, he leaps onto the bed.

It’s tempting to collapse onto my mattress like any two-legged man. Yesterday’s encounter with Marcella Pascal leveled me, coming on the heels of another sleepless night. But having already clobbered my sound shin with my prosthesis in the throes of a daymare, I’ve learned better. I take the extra time to de-cyborg myself.

Before I got this curse of a blessing, I naively assumed it would fix everything. What I’ve discovered is that the minutia of life requires so much more time and thought when you’re an amputee. And that’s not counting the endless vigilance against hot spots and abrasions.

To banish the ghost of my prosthetist’s voice, I give my stump a quick once-over. Even now, sixty-four days post-amputation, it looks alien to me. I miss my toes. My ankle. I miss being able to rise from my bed in the middle of the night to walk to the bathroom.

When I’ve finished my inspection, I engage the smart home interface. Henry, dim the windows by eighty-three percent. I’ve worked out this precise setting through trial and error. Any darker, and my brain prickles with disquietude. While it was a mere three days that Sarto’s henchman kept me locked up without light or food, the lack of sensory data left a truly humiliating mark.

Lawson nuzzles close, as if he knows I could use a pick-me-up—which, of course, he does. When I lie back, he settles on my pillow, paws folded on either side of my head and face buried in my hair. With his purr buzzing gently against my skull, I’m reminded of those first days in the White Eagle, when I had no idea what Sarto had done to him. I’ll be forever in Sam’s debt for taking Lawson home and keeping him safe.

The cat’s thrum quickly lulls me. For all the difficulty I have drifting off at night, my naps are nearly instant coma.

And they never last long enough.

While it’s usually my alarm that shatters their brief reprieve, today it’s Sam.

Mr. President. He shakes my shoulder, an imposition so profound I’m immediately alert. Mr. President, we need to talk.

I roll onto my side and push myself upright. As he steps back, I glean his expression: Pompeii at the instant of ashfall.

My breath freezes to a cold, hard stone in my chest. What?

There’s been an accident.

The kids?

Sam’s eyes deliver the truth a heartbeat before his words can. I’m sorry, Mr. President.

The bullet of a statement catches me in the gut. How? Where? My brain whirs with half-thoughts and questions. I can’t corral them, can’t direct them. I’m paralyzed.

Mr. President … Sam’s tone drills me, persistent, penetrating. Mr. President … But I can no longer see him. I can’t see anything except the swirling darkness of shock.

Mr. President! The thunderclap voice delivers a ten thousand volt shock—an instant anti-paralytic. I blink, confused, and squint across the dim room. How did Sam get back to the doorway?

Lawson purr-ows, head-butting my shoulder, and reality shakes me loose from my nested Russian doll of a dream. Sam?

I’m sorry to disturb your nap, but we have a situation.

My heart drums. The kids?

No—puzzlement twists Sam’s face—the Chinese ambassador. Are you all right, sir?

For a moment, I’m rendered weightless by the euphoria of relief. I’m fine. Perfect. I swing my leg-and-a-half over the side of the bed, ordering Henry to brighten the room, and reach for my gel liner.

Sir, Sam says as I roll it on under my shorts. You took that off just half an hour ago. Don’t you think you should give your leg more of a rest?

So now you’re angling to take on Dr. Alvarez’s job? Don’t you have enough on your plate? As chief of staff, he’s responsible for coordinating the flow of information between my advisors, senior staff, and cabinet members, not to mention counseling me. The man hasn’t been home more than twice in the nine days since we overthrew Sarto. He was sleeping in his office until I convinced him to take the Gate Lodge, which ordinarily houses visiting foreign dignitaries.

Sam is wise enough to ignore my crack.

I work my stump into the socket and stand, shifting my weight onto the prosthesis several times until the pin ratchets fully into place. Though it’s like jabbing my leg into a pile of broken glass, physical pain is something I can master. What’s going on with the ambassador?

Apparently, she had lunch with Senator Levine this afternoon. He told her you were looking for a way out of the water vapor distillation system deal. I assured her it wasn’t true, but she insists on speaking to you personally. If we weren’t at such a delicate point in the negotiations, I’d have—

It’s fine, Sam. You made the right call. Not to mention saved me from the depravity of my imagination. I cinch up my thigh-lacer—a bulky extension to the prosthesis that’s necessary due to the shortness of my lower leg. The trade-off for regaining mobility is that half the jeans and dress pants in my wardrobe have been rendered obsolete. But damn if it isn’t worth it.

Once we’re downstairs, I videoconference with Ambassador Yang, reassuring her I’m on board with our manufacturing arrangement. This would be so much easier—and more satisfying—if I could come right out and tell her what a prevaricating pile of horse crap Senator Levine truly is. Just once, I’d like to say to hell with decorum and speak my mind.

The reality of the situation is that he and his cohorts are the ones trying to undermine the deal. Marcella wasn’t bluffing last week when she threatened to stonewall my green energy projects.

Marcella. The mere thought slingshots me back to yesterday’s meet-and-greet. Its sights, smells, and chest-crushing grip of panic are scored indelibly into the hard drive of my mind. Where the hell did she get her information about the kids? I can accept that she deduced they’d been assigned Secret Service protection, but it’s highly implausible she simply guessed Logan was working with me. Occam’s Razor would favor my much simpler explanation—that we have a leak. Still, it’s pointless to revisit the subject with Sam. He clearly considers my suspicions paranoia.

Calling up my grit, I ask Henry to launch my favorite folk rock playlist in hopes it will snuff the uneasiness that never dwindles below pilot-light level in my chest.

Sam gives me a look I’ve become accustomed to since the showdown with Sarto. One that’s a mixture of sadness, pity, guilt, and concern; one I hate. If you’d like to get back to your nap, I can shift some things around to give you an hour or so, Mr. President.

At what cost? We’re already hopelessly buried. That won’t be necessary, Sam.

He studies me. A slight twitch at the corner of his mouth divulges the intent of the words he’s not saying. I know what he’s wondering, what he’s worried about. For three days, things were better. I was granted a temporary hiatus from looking like a week-dead corpse. But the sleeping pills Dr. Alvarez plied me with, effective as they were, harbored some sneaky side-effects. And while I could deal with the morning grogginess, Saturday night’s episode was too much.

I don’t know exactly what woke me, or even whether I was fully conscious, but I was aware. I couldn’t open my eyes, couldn’t move. No amount of willpower, of flat-out panic, could muster a twitch. And then, suddenly, it was morning. I woke with one thought—what if an incident were to happen in the middle of the night? What if Sam called for me, and I couldn’t break free? As golden as those three sleep-filled nights were, it would be unconscionable to allow them to continue at such potential risk. It’s a matter on which I won’t capitulate, and one I have no intention of mentioning to my chief of staff.

What’s next on the agenda? I ask. This is something I should remember; I read this morning’s briefing. But in addition to my being punchy with fatigue, concerns about the rescue mission have bumped all other details from my head. Is it too soon to send the kids an email?

Sam’s so sharp, he doesn’t even have to consult his list. We need to review the notes Representative Fischer and Senator Wright have collected regarding Marcella Pascal’s machinations, then you’ll be meeting with General Nye to discuss the situation in Azerbaijan. At four, you have a videoconference with Secretary Medeiros, and at four thirty, Dr. Alvarez wants to brief you about Magnusson-Bell Syndrome for your presentation to the Health and Human Services committee.

And just where does he imagine he could find an extra hour in all that? I draw a lingering breath, which proves entirely ineffectual at relieving the pressure building in my chest. What about the geothermal plant down by Klamath Falls? Isn’t there some foreman I need to recognize?

Warren Heywood. He caught an engineering oversight that could’ve resulted in substantial cost and injury. At five thirty, you’re awarding him a certificate of Outstanding Public Service.

And that’ll happen here?

Yes, sir. In the library with the staff photographer and two reporters. Olivia held a lottery for the honor.

The watered-down nature of this event is no doubt a result of Sam’s fear that a real awards ceremony would knock the scant remaining cheese off my cracker. While these citizen acknowledgements used to take place all the time, this is the first since I’ve been back. Sam hasn’t fully processed the idea that it’s government officials, not people in general, that I distrust.

That’ll be fine, I say, suppressing a flinch when phantom pain jolts my missing calf. Let’s take a look at those notes.

As we begin going over the summaries, the tightness in my chest builds to a low-tension hum. I’m acutely aware of how much insight Logan’s been providing. How he’s anticipated my needs and addressed them before I’ve fully tuned in to them myself. His absence prompts a vague feeling of vulnerability, a sense of something vital lost. And, of course, it reminds me of Piper’s proclamation that I’ve used him as a crutch. At the time, I scoffed the idea. Now I wonder if it’s true.

Regardless of how disconcerting I find the situation, and how hard it is to focus, I have no choice but to forge ahead. Even if Logan weren’t on his way to Tulsa, he’d be in school. It’s a reality my executive power can’t touch.

The briefing provides no real surprises, and no clues about our potential leak. While Marcella’s contingent has abandoned its impeachment prattle, she’s attempting to make deals with a number of representatives who’d normally support my policies. She’s been overheard conspiring with at least two senators, and she’s publicly thrown her weight behind Tasha Pitmann, the Republican presidential candidate. While the near-equal congressional balance between my supporters and Sarto’s has tipped in my favor, those who’ve remained loyal to his agenda have doubled down under Marcella’s leadership. They’re meddling in all my efforts to reinstate the green energy projects Sarto decommissioned, using the age-old excuse of insufficient funds—as if these are fresh ideas that haven’t already been approved.

When I stand to pace the room—a luxury I can’t get enough of—the lancing pain reminds me I’m pressing my luck. After exceeding my prosthetist’s limits at the remembrance ceremony yesterday, the four hours this morning may have been a bit excessive. But walking empowers me in a way nothing has since before Sarto’s betrayal.

Resorting to my crutches is an unrelenting aggravation, and repeatedly donning and doffing the prosthesis even more so. Still, on a purely factual level, I suspect Sam may be right. When I return to my desk, I remove my pseudo-limb. Better to rest now than be unable to walk into my meeting with Warren Heywood.

Sam seems relieved by this voluntary surrender. Though he has enough work of his own to do, when we finish with Marcella, he sticks close through the conference with General Nye and the video call with the secretary of state. A small part of me considers this an annoying attempt at babysitting, but in all honesty, it’s a relief. For the past nine days, Logan has acted as my assistant, briefing me for meetings, taking notes, and passing necessary information along to Sam. Without him, I can barely keep my mind on task, let alone manage these details.

By the time my secretary, Jamie, announces Dr. Alvarez’s arrival, the afternoon feels as though it’s dragged on for a week. The hum of tension has kicked up to an unignorable buzz, and I’m growing more certain Piper had a point about Logan. I’ve felt pretty good these last nine days. Pretty solid. Enough so that I led her to believe I might stay in the presidential race. But how can I, knowing I’m this shaky? Without Logan, I’m a mess.

Dr. Alvarez breezes into the room, not at all shy about peeking around my desk to confirm my prosthesis is lying on the floor, rather than strapped to my stump. Giving me a quick but penetrating once-over, she settles into the chair in which Logan should be sitting.

You look exhausted, Mr. President. Are the sleep meds working? We can try something else.

Something that’s likely to have the same side-effects, or worse. The meds are fine. It’s been a stressful couple of days. I’ll adjust.

She scrutinizes me again, clearly skeptical. All right. Let me know if anything changes. This will undoubtedly be a difficult transition. We want to make it as easy for you as possible.

As if there’s an easy way to lose two friends, a drug that can speed the healing. But that’s a subject I’d rather not think about, so I plaster my face with cheerful wallpaper. You can start by calling me Jefferson.

Though Dr. Alvarez feigns seriousness, she can’t mask the sudden luminance in her eyes, the slight dimple that furrows her cheek when she suppresses a smile. You know I won’t do that, sir.

And you know I won’t stop asking.

Her lips twitch and then pull into a solemn line. Of course, Mr. President. As I understand it, tenacity is a useful quality in politics.

I’m sure there’s no question in anyone’s mind, including the doctor’s, that I find her attractive. But even if my pursuit of a relationship wouldn’t cause her a conflict of interest, I wouldn’t seriously consider it. Piper’s had enough of a struggle coming to terms with being let down by her mentor. I wouldn’t endeavor to complicate that, to cause her any additional discord or unease.

Dr. Alvarez looks down, waking the tablet she brought in with her. We have a lot to cover, and some of it’s quite technical. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have me speak to the committee?

You’d be invaluable supplying additional testimony, but this is something I need to do. I owe it to Zoey. While I can’t cure her Magnusson-Bell Syndrome, I can damn well ensure that the scientists working toward that goal have the proper funding.

A genuine seriousness settles over the doctor’s face. That little girl would never expect you to push yourself into something you’re not ready for.

I can’t keep hiding from Congress forever. People are beginning to talk. And now that Pascal’s made note of my Secret Service phobia, they have all that much more to conspire about.

Let them, she says. You have enough challenges and stressors without soliciting more.

Dr. Alvarez—

I’m serious, Mr. President. If you need to do this for Zoey, so be it. But don’t allow Marcella Pascal to goad you into anything you’re not comfortable with. She hesitates, reading my frown, and then continues. Are you familiar with John Steinbeck?

"The author of The Grapes of Wrath?"

Precisely. He said, ‘We give the president more work than a man can do, more responsibility than a man should take, more pressure than a man can bear.’ That’s something that’s always been true, sir. Even for presidents who haven’t endured a betrayal by their own administration, a physical and psychological assault, and an amputation. She regards me with a look that couples her usual firm manner with a whole new level of compassion. You have a right—I could even argue an obligation—to take your time with this. Let Congress make do with a videoconference, and save your strength for the fights that truly matter.

I’ve heard similar lectures from Sam, Piper, and Logan, but somehow this one snatches the wind from my sails. After a moment, Dr. Alvarez takes pity and returns her attention to the tablet. Shall we go over this material?

Please.

She crams my head with enough MB facts to launch another study, then, noting my struggle to focus, promises to deliver detailed electronic notes. As she leaves the room, I put on my game face—and my prosthesis—for the award presentation.

Warren Heywood proves to be a humble man, bowled over by the thought of the president acknowledging him for simply doing his job. After the requisite photo shoot, I wave the press away so I can give him some one-on-one time. Warren’s so refreshingly genuine, so kind and friendly, I eke out an extra fifteen minutes, muting my phone and shooing off the staffer who knocks at the door to call me to dinner.

It’s Warren who ultimately notes the time and insists he’s troubled me long enough. After assuring him it’s been a pleasure, and following him to the door, I make my way to the dining room.

Lookin’ good, Mr. President.

The familiar voice jars me like an elbow to the ribs. I whip around, nerves a jangling cymbal clash, to see Carlos, one of the staffers who used to join me for impromptu soccer games on the lawn.

Aw heck, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.

The prestissimo pounding of my pulse nearly drowns out his voice.

Carlos nods at my new leg and flashes a grin. You’re doing great with that thing. We’ll be out there kicking a soccer ball around before ya know it.

The intended reassurance feels anything but. My gait is hopeless, each step a reminder of a reality I’d rather forget. Doesn’t he realize how much I could use that scrimmage—that his starry-eyed encouragement, no matter how well-meaning, only underlines how far out of reach it is? Regardless, I squeeze out a Thanks, Carlos, force my lips to curve appreciatively, and squelch the nagging worry that Piper’s right about the damned surgery.

I should detour through my office to remove my prosthesis, but after that, how can I? Instead, I proceed straight to the dining room, leaning on my cane a bit more heavily than usual.

Zoey and Olivia are waiting at the table, plates of some edible extravagance sitting untouched before them.

My stomach clenches at the recognition of another slip-up, and a surge of annoyance saps the dregs of my energy. I’m sorry for making you wait. I didn’t realize you’d be joining me tonight.

Is that all right? Olivia asks.

Of course. But you should’ve started without me.

Mr. President—

No. I hold up a hand. Please, Olivia. Don’t ‘Mr. President’ me. Not tonight.

She stares, clearly at a loss. Zoey, however, knows exactly what to do. She pushes out of her seat and scrambles to wrap me in a hug, her pure and simple love a prescription Dr. Alvarez could only hope to write.

Poor Jefferson, Zoey says, twig-arms clasping tight.

I cup my hand around the back of her head and hold her, grateful that this, at least, is one friendship I won’t have to forfeit.

Unlike Logan and Piper, Zoey will stay right here at Pittock, conducting her schooling online. While this is mainly due to the challenges her illness presents, her three-month separation from her mother is also a factor. As heartbreaking as I find Zoey’s condition, this silver-lining comes as a relief. Her mother, Olivia, has job security she can’t even begin to imagine.

A kitchen staffer brings my dinner to the table. While Zoey and I take our seats, Olivia briefs me regarding press corps rumblings. As press secretary, she’s on friendly terms with the majority of the reporters, which frequently renders her privy to information that hasn’t yet hit Sam’s radar.

Unfortunately, rumors are circulating down in Reedsport about the wave energy deal, she says. Someone’s been telling locals the expected jobs won’t materialize.

My chest constricts, the buzz of breathlessness intensifying. I’ve devoted hours to repairing Cascadia’s damaged relationship with Japan, to convincing the prime minister we’re worthy of this partnership. I never once considered that someone here might question the benefits of the proposed factory. With sea levels rising and the dead zone growing due to ever-increasing ocean temperatures and acidity, our coastal communities are desperate for economic stimulus. But truly, the attack should come as no surprise. I suppose this is Marcella’s doing.

We’ve found no direct connection, but that’s my assumption.

Well, it’s a lie, right? Zoey looks from me to her mother. Can’t you make a statement? Show them the numbers or something?

Of course, Olivia says. In fact, a study was released months ago, and I’ve just sent it out again. The trouble is getting people to believe it.

Why wouldn’t they? Zoey demands. We’ve got solid facts. It’s not just one guy’s story, like when Jefferson told everyone what Sarto had done to him, or Russ Fujimoto gave us the goods about FreedomCorp.

Those incidents were both hard truths for her, and this will most certainly be another. Facts aren’t always enough, I say. Once an idea gets out, people can’t un-hear it. That’s why lawyers make statements that are inadmissible. Even if the judge tells the jury to disregard the information, it still has an emotional impact.

Zoey scowls at her plate. That sucks.

It certainly does.

I’m hoping this setback is the worst of it—that I won’t be blindsided by yet another surprise—but Olivia isn’t finished.

While you were speaking with Mr. Heywood, news broke about a protest up in New Seattle. It looks like the organizers have ties to the group that led the rallies in Kennewick, Coeur d’Alene, and Victoria last week. This one’s bigger, though, and they’re claiming you altered the video of Sarto plotting to bomb Big Pink.

The noose around my lungs tightens. Ignoring it, I reach for the breadbasket. There’s nothing we can do. Not if they aren’t breaking any laws.

No, but I thought you’d want it brought to your attention.

Something in her tone—a faint hesitancy or concern—pulls my gaze from the slice of warm pugliese I’ve unnestled from its swaddling. Of course, Olivia. Thank you.

With a husband imprisoned in FreedomCorp, a son risking the same fate, and a daughter facing surgery that won’t stop the progression of her terminal disease, Olivia has more than enough troubles of her own. I’m fortunate she’s willing to look past them on behalf of a country she’s called home for barely a week.

* * *

After dinner, I take a few minutes to email Piper and Logan. Once that’s done, I engage in damage control, videoconferencing with the mayors of the coastal cities involved in the wave energy generator project.

At eight o’clock, Sam commences with the harassment. Mr. President, it’s time to call it a day.

I glance up from the notes I’m typing for my MB presentation. In a few minutes. I need to finish this. With Logan gone, Sam’s short on reinforcements, something I can surely press to my advantage.

Sir, we’ve been over this. You can’t solve the country’s problems overnight.

An unfortunate truth. But it’s so damned hard to walk away.

Sam badgers me for a few more minutes and then gives up. Or so I think. A moment later, Zoey knocks on the west doors, which my chief of staff has ever-so-conveniently left open.

Jefferson? She leans inside, uncharacteristically shy. I was hoping maybe I could get a guitar lesson. She beseeches me with her big-eyed look. The one that never fails to reduce me to putty, despite my conviction it’s precisely calculated.

I sigh, shut my laptop, and reach for my crutches. Lawson stretches in the bed Jamie sewed him from green, white, and blue flannel, then hops down from my desk. As he saunters out of the room, Zoey and I follow.

With the forest fire smoke now thick enough to haze the trees just beyond the fence, we bypass the terrace in favor of the library. I’m surprised to see it isn’t empty. Deke reclines in his favorite chair, arms and legs akimbo