Category: Uncategorized

60

Friday, March 12, 2021, 6PM Eastern Standard Time

Commander Stephanie Smith, U.S. Coast Guard, pulled into the parking garage of the Coast Guard Headquarters in the DHS complex, which occupied a piece of land taken from the old, larger campus of St. Elizabeth’s Hospital, most famous until the twenty-first century as a mental hospital.

Quite appropriate, Stephanie thought. As it had been every other Friday recently, it had been that kind of afternoon.

She should have become used to the twice-monthly Friday nuclear exercises by now. Though she was only one of five rotating military aides to the President, one from each of the armed service branches, she had had the bad (or the good?) luck to have been the aide on duty for each of the Friday nuclear exercises for the past two months. She wondered whether one of the other aides had somehow gotten to the scheduler. She liked all her fellow aides, but over the years she had found inter-service rivalry to be a force about as resistible in human affairs as gravity, magnetism, or opioid addiction, and despite her great esteem for the Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marines, she suspected that the recent rota had not been constructed entirely randomly.

And though her entire career had been based on a determination never, ever to give up, under any circumstances, and to welcome even the toughest, most frightening challenges, this one, she had to admit, had her just about beaten. It was one thing to hang on to the deck of a surf rescue boat being deliberately rolled in the 30-foot surf of Cape Disappointment, or to be dropped into hurricane-lashed seas as a rescue swimmer. In those cases, only your own and several other people’s lives were at stake. But in her recent Friday adventures, it sometimes seemed to her that she was playing with the lives of every person on the planet.

So she had come to headquarters to talk to a Coast Guard Deputy Chaplain, Gary. She knew Gary from previous rotations. Though she had never used his services, he was said to be a superb pastor, exactly the person one should go to in cases such as these. For the first time in her career, maybe the first time in her life, she felt the need for spiritual guidance.

She walked into his office. As expected, there was no receptionist or other staff at this hour. When Coasties were in the field, they were often on call 24/7, so being able to go home at a reasonable hour was one of the few benefits they saw to a Headquarters rotation. Usually, for early-arriving Coast Guard personnel, that meant 4:30 PM. So, she was not surprised to see Gary at his admin’s desk, apparently looking through some folders.

“Commander,” Gary said. “Just give me a minute here.”

“Sure.”

Gary finished with his folders, got up, and opened a filing cabinet drawer, and stuck the folders in.

“Okay, all finished,” he said. “Let’s go into my office.”

Stephanie followed him into his modest office, filled with planks and caps from his previous vessels, and photographs of change of command ceremonies.

“Water?” Gary said.

“Sure,” Stephanie said. He handed her a bottle and took one for himself.

“Have a seat,” he said, pointing to a chair across from his desk.

“So, what’s up?” Gary asked, flopping in his chair.

Stephanie took a deep breath.

“I need some advice. Some… guidance.”

“That’s what we’re here for. What’s it about?”

“Well, my current job.”

“And what is that again? I’ve lost track of your career.”

“I am… military aide to the President.”

“Wow. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

“So, what’s the problem?”

“Well… now that I am here, I don’t know how much I can talk about it.”

“Is it classified?”

Stephanie was stumped.

“I’m not sure, to be honest. At least the part I am concerned about.”

“Well, how much can you tell me?”

“Maybe I can just describe the ethical situation I find myself in.”

“Okay.”

“In the course of my duties, I find myself doing things that…might endanger many human lives.”

“Well, that’s rather common in the military, is it not?”

“Yes,” she said. “But it’s less so for us Coasties, of course. We’re more the lifesavers, not the life-takers.”

“Yes.”

“But this is even bigger than the normal military risk level.”

“How so?”

“Well, it could involve the end of the world.”

There was a long pause.

Finally, Gary spoke.

“Without getting into specifics, I presume you are speaking of certain duties of the rotating military aides that have to do with procedures regarding certain offensive or defensive military actions that only a Commander in Chief can order?”

“Yes.”

“I see,” said Gary. “And you have some objection to something having to do with this process? Or are you more generally now a pacifist? Were you unaware that your assignment could require you to participate in this procedure?”

“I am not a pacifist, and I was not a pacifist when I accepted this assignment, sir.”

“So, it’s not the process itself that is bothering you?”

“It is not the principle that I might have to participate in this particular exercise, sir. It’s… the specific way in which the exercise is being used.”

“Obviously the full…exercise is not being carried out. So, I must assume it is the… principal’s, or perhaps someone else’s, conduct with respect to preparing for this exercise?”

“That’s pretty close, sir.”

“Huh.” Gary thought it over. Then he got up and walked over to his office door, looked out as if to make sure no one was there, shut the door, walked back to his chair, and sat down.

“Why did you come to me?”

“Sir?”

“I mean, why come to me in particular with this?”

“You mean as opposed to taking it up the chain of command?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” she said, “I don’t want to be relieved immediately just for raising this. And I wanted moral guidance. What is the right thing to do here?”

“But you wanted a particular type of moral guidance. Something religious. Are you a religious person?”

Stephanie considered this.

“Not especially. But I’m a believer.”

“So, you want my religious advice.”

“I guess.”

“Okay.” Gary leaned forward and put his hands together. “Here’s what I think.”

Stephanie waited for ten seconds or so. Gary finally spoke.

“I believe in the chain of command. I think Jesus believed in it as well. Remember the Roman centurion in Capernaum who sent word to Him to cure his servant, and when Jesus approached his house, he sent further word?”

Gary pulled the Bible from his desk and turned to Matthew.

“He said…let’s see here… ‘“Lord, do not trouble yourself, for I am not worthy to have you come under my roof. Therefore I did not presume to come to you. But say the word, and let my servant be healed. For I too am a man set under authority, with soldiers under me: and I say to one, ‘Go,’ and he goes; and to another, ‘Come,’ and he comes; and to my servant, ‘Do this,’ and he does it.” When Jesus heard these things, he marveled at him, and turning to the crowd that followed him, said, “I tell you, not even in Israel have I found such faith.” And when those who had been sent returned to the house, they found the servant well.’”

Stephanie sat, waiting for further explanation.

“Do you understand?”

“Maybe,” she said. “Are you saying I should go to my superior officers on this?”

“Stephanie, who is the most superior officer of all?”

“Uh…God?”

Gary smiled and looked down.

“Well, of course. But here on earth, who is your most superior officer?”

“The Commandant?”

“Higher.”

Stephanie thought. The Secretary of Homeland Security? He was Acting, and still in college, from what she heard. Or was she reporting to the Secretary of Defense, since she was in the rota for the Military Aide slot? But they are also both Acting, so maybe they don’t count – who did they report to?

“The President?”

“There you go,” Gary said. “Our military chain of command culminates in the President. The Constitution makes him the Commander in Chief. So, you have a very sacred duty to obey his orders, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I imagine that there are circumstances in which you might be excused from this duty. Perhaps if the President ordered you to commit a crime, or to violate your religious beliefs. He has not done this, I assume?”

“Uh, I don’t think so,” she said. “I’d have to think about it.”

“Well, unless he does,” Gary said, “I think you must assume that the President knows best. That is our system.”

“Even if he may be endangering everyone on earth with what he is doing?”

“I think that is a bit above your pay grade, to make a determination like that,” Gary responded. “Besides, as you mentioned, there is someone above his pay grade who no doubt is looking down and guiding this President.”

“Uh…huh,” Stephanie said, trying to hide any doubt she might be feeling. Gary leaned back in his chair and his face took on a mystical aspect.

“Some people even believe that this President has been specifically sent unto us to fulfill certain Biblical prophecies. I am not saying I agree with them. But very many Biblical prophecies do seem to be coming true. ‘For nation shall rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom: and there shall be famines, and pestilences, and earthquakes, in divers places.’ I don’t know, I am just a simple man. But perhaps you yourself have also been sent to this President, to help him achieve certain… godly aims.”

“Ah,” was all Stephanie could manage.

“I hope this has been helpful,” Gary said, rising to his feet, a broad smile on his face.

Stephanie scrambled to her feet.

“Uh, yes, sir,” she said. “Thank you for your time.”

“Don’t mention it,” Gary said, beaming.

Stephanie turned crisply and opened the door.

“Thanks again,” she said, half turning back.

“Semper paratus,” Gary said as she left.

“Semper paratus, sir,” she called back, leaving the reception area.

In the lot, she put her car into gear and answered her ringing hands-free phone.

“Hi, mom.”

“How are you?”

“Uh,” she said, backing out of her space, slightly disoriented, “I don’t know.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Uh… nothing. It’s been a long day, with a strange ending. I have to drive home now, Mom,” she said.

“Well, you take care of yourself, honey. I’m always home if you need me.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

There was a pause at the other end of the line. Then her mother spoke, in a tentative, playful voice.

“Did you get to talk to the President again today?”

Stephanie made a face.

“I’ve got to go, Mom… I’m driving.”

“Okay, bye.”

© 2020 Nolan O’Brian

61

Friday, March 12, 2021, 8PM Eastern Standard Time

Former President Okomo was reaching the end of his prepared remarks at Douglass College. He looked at the crowd above his black N-95 mask.

“Some terrible things are happening right now, there can be no doubt. Swing state voters have had their votes negated by their supposed representatives. Legitimate state elections are being overturned by armed mobs. Judges, the ultimate bulwark of our rule of law, are being targeted and even killed. Our federal government, the only thing the Founders founded, has been vandalized and left unable to accomplish the most basic tasks expected of any government. International allies are dismayed and disheartened, and our global rivals and enemies see us unilaterally yielding our once nearly universally accepted dominant position in the world, and are gleefully stepping in to our role.

“In the face of all that, our party, the only plausible antidote to this political virus afflicting our nation, seems to be fragmenting in front of our eyes. The progressives have already left the party and formed their own. African-Americans, the most stalwart part of our coalition, are barely hanging in there. Hispanic people seem to be thinking about creating their own party. Women are losing hope that the Democrats are the vehicle through which they can achieve their goals. The Supreme Court is about to be packed for decades to come with ultraconservatives. The stunning loss of all branches of government, at a time when we seemed to be in a position to take back the reins of power, and reverse so much of the damage caused in the past four years by the almost nihilistic approach of the Republicans, certainly was cause for all of us to stop and take stock, and to question almost everything.

“But there are some things that cannot be questioned. Not anymore. It can no longer be questioned by any serious, honest, moral person that this government, and the man who heads it, and those who enable and aid and abet him, are determined to make this a one-party state. They want to annihilate all opposition. They have determined that free and fair elections are a threat to them. They see that demographics are relentlessly moving against them. If we are able to run against them on a level playing field, with a minimal level of unity and cooperation, they cannot win.

“To get those free and fair elections, we must resist. To resist, we need organizations like SNRM, registering folks and arranging rides to the polls and getting mail-in ballots to the people, doing the nuts-and-bolts stuff. A lot of you are down right now, I can tell. But I tell you now, this is a time for heroes, and SNRM is one of the places heroes gather to give each other strength. It’s just as Congresswoman Jamie Evans said a few weeks ago. Right now, we need heroes. A lot of people in my generation grew up without any great cause to get behind. No great quest. When we came of age, there was no Vietnam War, no Great Depression, no fight for basic Civil Rights. Our generation looked around and we were told, ‘It’s all over. You really should have been here a few weeks ago. The protests were more meaningful. The tyranny was real. The war was killing us. Heck, even the music was better. Might as well go to business school. It’s all over.’

“Well, that was never the case. There is always injustice to fight. There are always noble causes. But now we don’t need to squint to see them, do we? We have tyranny and dictatorship and injustice staring us in the face. Look at Vaneida here, and Jenna, and Janice. They faced down the forces of anti-Americanism and autocracy on the National Mall a few weeks ago. And they have the scars to prove it. Well, Jenna has one, anyway.”

The crowd chuckled.

“So, the Congresswoman, Congresswoman Evans, hit the nail on the head: Heroes Wanted. Maybe the 1980s were a time to go make money on Wall Street. Maybe the 2000s were the time to go invent a new app in Silicon Valley. But the 2020s? They are about standing up to rescue this nation from true evil. So, do not feel down, people. To reverse a famous quote, the arc of history may bend toward justice, but it does not do so in a steady line. And there are people pulling on that arc in both directions. We need you pulling in the direction of justice, and charity toward all, and equality, and the essential unity of all people. Because there are a lot of forces right now pulling in the direction of injustice, and selfishness, and inequality, and disunity. Keep pulling, brothers and sisters. Keep pulling. Keep the faith. God bless you and God bless the United States of America.”

The socially distanced crowd, also masked, stood up and cheered and applauded the former President for a long time.

Vaneida leaned over to Jenna as both were clapping off to the side of the dais. “Hey Nature Girl,” Vaneida said. “The President knows your na-ame.”

Jenna simply smiled.

Eventually the applause faded and people got up and began to mill around. Several Secret Service agents quickly surrounded the ex-President, enforcing a strict social distance around him. Okomo beckoned Vaneida over to him. She approached tentatively.

“Sister here is okay,” Okomo said to the agents. They allowed her to approach him.

“Very nice crowd, nice setup,” the ex-President said to Vaneida.

“Thank you,” she said. “Really, thank you for coming. The crowd came to see you. It helps our organization a great deal.”

“My pleasure,” the ex-President replied. “As you can imagine, being an ex-President in this particular time period can be a bit trying. You start writing memoirs, and setting up a library, and then you put your head up and look around, and every proud accomplishment you’re documenting is being shredded. It makes you want to get up and say something after a while. I tried to make the case last fall, but it wasn’t enough.”

“Well, if you’d been on the ballot yourself…” Vaneida began.

The ex-President waved that thought away.

“I think the two-term limit was a very good precedent for Washington to set,” he said. “If the continuation of everything decent in this country depends on the same person sticking around indefinitely, then something’s wrong. We’re supposed to be a country of laws, not men.”

“Well, so far it’s been all men.”

“I hope someday I get to vote for someone like you to end that streak,” the ex-President said.

“Not gonna happen,” Vaneida said. “I’m an academic.”

“Well, so was I,” the ex-President said. “I actually hope I get to do that again someday.”

“Well you can co-teach my course on Presidential Politics in the Digital Age. It meets Thursdays at 1PM.”

“Don’t joke,” he said. “I might just show up for that. Also, I remember you were quite the basketball player. Might have to invite you over for our regular pickup game.”

“Well, I hear you are not bad, and I also have a bad back.”

“Sandbagging already,” the ex-President said, grinning. “You sure you aren’t a politician? Well, we’ll have to have you over for dinner, at least. I’m sure Marilyn would love to talk to you about Third Wave Feminism. Or are we on the fourth wave now? I can’t keep track.”

“We might be back on the first wave pretty soon if we don’t watch it,” Vaneida said. “Can I bring Janice and Jenna over for a picture? They earned it on Inauguration Day.”

“Absolutely,” the ex-President said.

Vaneida gestured to the other two, and they came over sheepishly.

“Well, you know who they are, obviously,” Vaneida said, “since you called them out by name. But this is Janice Isley.”

Janice reached out to shake hands and got an elbow extended by the ex-President. She quickly adjusted, withdrawing her hand and extending her elbow.

“Sorry!” she said.

“No worries,” he said. “I just thought someone should model what a leader should be doing during a pandemic, instead of just making everyone else do it. Also, one president getting this virus is enough.”

“Right,” Janice said. “I’ll never dry-clean this sleeve again.”

“And this is Jenna Jones,” Vaneida said. “Used to be a student of mine.”

Elbows were extended as per public health guidelines this time.

“The eye looks pretty good now,” the ex-President said.

“Yeah, I guess I’ll live,” Jenna said.

“Well, let’s do this,” the ex-President said. Vaneida handed her phone to another person and asked her to take the photo. The women gathered around him, smiling.

“Cheese,” he said. The other woman took several shots on Vaneida’s phone and then passed it back to her.

Okomo turned to Vaneida and said to her, “I’m glad to come here and speak to the group. But if there’s anything else you can think of that I could do, anything that will advance the cause, fundraising you want me to put my name on, write a letter, even legal help – I am still a lawyer last time I checked – let me know. If someone gets in a jam, call me. Let me give you my number for that.”

The ex-President reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a business card that contained only a phone number.

“No name or anything, in case it gets lost. Nifty, huh?” Vaneida laughed, and put the card in her jacket.

“Actually, Ice here – that’s what we call Janice – is the organizational counsel. But you can be of counsel if she’s not available.”

“Perfect,” the ex-President said. “Keep up the good work.”

Then he turned to his Secret Service people. “Okay. I guess we can get this show on the road.”

He began to head for the exits, head pointed to the floor in front of him, right hand waving to the side as he did. The remnants of the crowd clapped as he passed.

“God, I wish he was still President,” Jenna said.

“Me too,” Vaneida said.

“He touched my elbow,” Janice said.

“I know he did, Ice.”

“He invited you to play basketball, Cobra,” Janice said. “If you don’t go, I will break every bone in your body.”

They all laughed.

“Here, Ice,” Vaneida said. “You can hold onto his card. You’re the lawyer.”

Janice accepted the card as if it were a holy relic.

This was a good night, Vaneida thought. The first in a long while.

© 2020 Nolan O’Brian

62

Saturday, March 13, 2021, 11AM Eastern European Time

The emergency conference call between the prime minister of Latvia, the president and prime minister of Lithuania, the prime minister of Estonia, and the Secretary- General of NATO began a few minutes late, in the usual perfectly fluent but slightly accented English that was the lingua franca of almost all NATO calls, except those on which the French were included.

“Why does Lithuania get two people on the call? Our presidents will be hearing about this,” the prime minister of Latvia groused.

“This is what happens when you put your constitution up to a vote,” the prime minister of Estonia said. “‘Semi-presidential system.’ What does that even mean?”

“There is nothing we can do, guys,” the Lithuanian president said, apologetically. “The legal protocol demands it.”

“The law is the law and protocol is protocol,” the prime minister of Latvia said.

“Can we begin, gentlemen?” the NATO Secretary General asked, a bit plaintively.

“Yes,” the Lithuanian prime minister said. “Where the hell did this Wolf News story come from?

“We are not sure,” the Secretary-General said, apologetically now.

“‘Heads of Baltic States mocked U.S. President, disparaged Americans as stupid in drink-fueled sauna session?” the president of Lithuania said, angrily. “We’ve never all been in the same place, much less been drinking in a sauna. What are we, Finns?”

“It’s obvious where this is coming from,” the prime minister of Estonia said. “This is the work of our friends from the east. One friend in particular. The usual suspect.”

“Duh,” the Latvian prime minister said.

“It says here I called the president of the United States ‘a complete douchebag,’ the Estonian said. “What is this ‘douchebag?’ Is it a term of abuse?”

“I supposedly called him ‘a stupid orangutan,’ the Latvian prime minister said. “I have never said any such thing. Even though he did mistake the Baltics for the Balkans in November 2018, and told us we were to blame for the Yugoslavian wars. That’s sixteen hundred kilometers away from us. A thousand miles! Isn’t his wife from the former Yugoslavia?”

“That does not shock me. He told the prime minister of India last year ‘It’s not like you have China on your border,’” the Lithuanian prime minister said. “I guess that border war they have been fighting has been just a mistake. But listen to this. I, or maybe my president here, allegedly called him ‘a tiny-handed impotent gorilla- man.’ These are good lines for a comedian, I think, but they are news to me.”

The Estonian said, “And one of us called the American people ‘stinking rubes with the intelligence of a dyslexic turnip.’ No one here said anything like this, right?”

The Latvian prime minister said, “You know, we’d better be careful. This is turning into a roast. We have to think we are being taped here.”

The Estonian replied, “At this point, who cares? Even if we said he had Einstein’s mind and Matthew McConaughey’s body, they’d tell Wolf News we said he had McConaughey’s brain and Einstein’s body!”

The Latvian prime minister said, “President McConaughey… does not sound too terrible at this moment, no?”

“Let’s focus here,” said the Lithuanian president. “This thing says that it was ‘the heads of the Baltic republics.’ Are we…sure… that your presidents have not gotten together without your knowledge? Americans do have very little knowledge of our governmental systems, in my experience.”

“No,” yelled the prime ministers of Latvia and Estonia loudly and in unison.

“Okay, I’m just asking,” said the president of Lithuania, in a slightly hurt tone.

“The obvious question everyone in our country, and I assume all of yours, is asking is, ‘Can we depend upon NATO to defend us against the Russians?’ Because we all know that they are the ones who planted this vicious baseless slur.”

The Secretary General paused before he spoke again.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I regret to inform you that the President of the United States has already ordered all his forces out of the Baltic Republics. They will begin their withdrawal today. In an hour.”

There was silence at the other end, then pandemonium.

“Will they be replaced?”

“We invoke Article 5!”

“You must bring up other troops to replace them!”

“We invoke Article 5!”

When the yelling had subsided, the Secretary General said wearily, “As you all know, Article 5 cannot be invoked by a member state of NATO until that state has actually been attacked.”

“We’re sitting ducks,” the Latvian prime minister said.

“Jėzus Kristus,” one of the Lithuanians said.

“Keppima!” the Estonian shouted.

“We are scrambling to put together a replacement force,” the Secretary-General said patiently. “However, I must tell you now that no nation has yet agreed to supply troops to replace the Americans.”

There was a depressed silence on the other end of the line. After a moment, the Estonian spoke.

“Did you have to say ‘I must tell you now?’ Very Neville Chamberlain.”

The Latvian said, “Well, we might as well meet in a sauna and get drunk at this point, because gentlemen, very shortly, we will become Finland.”

“I will be in touch with each of you,” the Secretary-General said.

“I think we all need to be in touch with each other at this point,” the Lithuanian president said. “And we will need our military chiefs to be on the call. Can we add them?” he asked an unseen aide.

“I suggest we reconvene in half an hour, with all the heads of our general staffs included,” the Estonian prime minister said. “All agreed?”

All agreed.

© 2020 Nolan O’Brian

63

Monday, March 15, 2021, 12:00PM Eastern Daylight Time

“Come in, Terry,” Maxfield King said.

Terry Sweeney sidled over to a chair opposite Max’s desk.

“What’s up?” he said. “And what, am I not good enough for the big office in Main State?”

Max smiled. “I’m not confirmed by the Senate yet,” he said. “That’s next week.”

“That hasn’t stopped a lot of other appointees from squatting in their offices as Acting Secretaries,” Terry said.

“Well, I have a special deal with the President,” Max said. “I told him I needed official status. Now that the GOP has the Senate again, largely thanks to me, by the way, I asked him to have me confirmed for real. Until I am, I’ll leave that place to the Swamp. They know I’m coming, though.”

“So, what do you need me for?”

“We have a problem.”

“Really?”

“It’s Joe.”

“Joe Durcan?”

“Yes.”

“He seems like a solid enough guy.”

“Seems. But he is not. I have reason to believe he is not a true believer in our cause.”

“What evidence?”

Max threw a folder across the desk. Terry picked it up and opened it. He began to leaf through photographs of Joe with Vaneida. Having coffee, having dinner, outside her office building, entering his apartment building.

“I thought she was a dyke,” Terry said.

Max closed his eyes at this, as if deeply shocked.

“You know I don’t like that kind of language.”

“Sorry, boss. But she is not… she’s…”

“Exactly,” Max said. “Which makes this maybe worse. I think he has been recruited over to her side.”

“Why would he?”

“He was pretty tight with the Kurds.”

“The Kurds. Good fighters.”

“When the President decided to pull our people out of that conflict, to bring our people home because the real fight was at home, I think Joe was shocked. He was very tight with this Kurdish leader.”

He tossed another photograph of Joe in Iraqi Kurdistan with a Pesh Merga general across the desk.

“So, he was pissed… uh, ticked off, when we changed course,” Terry said.

“Joe seems to be easily swayed,” Max said. “But there’s something else.”

He opened an audio file on his computer and hit “play.” They listened as Joe’s voice could be heard.

“…As far as I’m concerned, out of this whole group, you’re the only one that’s worth the bullet.”

Terry looked at Max. “When is this from?”

“My ranch. The training exercise. Keep listening.”

“…None of these assholes are even worth the effort to fire a bullet, only you are.”

“Whoa,” Terry said.

“…Between you and me, and don’t tell anyone I said this, I think Ban is an asshole. And so are most of these Ban wannabes. Nothing good can come of this. So, if you value my advice at all, I would tell you, walk away from this whole thing and don’t look back.”

Max turned off the playback.

“So.”

“He’s not entirely wrong about Ban,” Terry said.

“Ban is a self-limiting phenomenon. The President got him off that other charge, but I think Ban has finally done something that will keep him out of our hair, eliminate him for a while as a threat to us. But forget about Ban. Joe here seems to be less than convinced as to our greater cause.”

“True.”

“Which makes him dangerous.”

“So, what do you want to do about this?”

“I have a larger plan in mind, and as part of it, I think we can take care of Joe here.”

“A larger plan?”

“Yes. Can I trust you?”

“Hell, I owe you. You got my case up to the President. Without you I’d be in Leavenworth. Or worse.”

“But can I trust you with mission-critical information that may impact the restoration of this nation to the principles of its birth in revolution and martial valor?”

Terry stared at him.

“Sure,” he said.

“You believe that we military men are the natural leaders of this nation, do you not?”

“Uh… yeah,” said Terry. “Absolutely.”

“George Washington was the natural and undisputed leader of this nation, the father of his country. Since then, we have gotten farther and farther from that ideal. The bottom, of course, was the last two Democrat presidents, neither of whom served, both of whom radiated hostility toward our sacred military. But even the last two Republicans have failed to live up to the lofty standard set by General Washington. One served in a Guard unit, rather than in combat in Vietnam. And even this current President, who has done so much for our cause, never served at all, much less active duty, still less in combat. He has been a blunt instrument for our ends, as Ban says. But he cannot fill the role that Washington created. And he seems to have been…lessened by his illness.”

Terry was listening with rapt attention.

“Terry, I helped get you out of that mess over the haji prisoner because it was a blatant injustice. But I also saw you as a man I could trust, to whom I could entrust a great mission, a mission on the outcome of which, perhaps, the fate of our entire nation might rest. This President has done us great service. But though he has brought us to the mountaintop, he is not the one to lead us into the promised land.”

“Who is?”

Max smiled.

“Again, can I trust you to be discreet?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Okay. You’ve got a key role. Keep this closely held.”

“You got it. What’s the plan?”

“There is a girl involved.”

“Interesting.”

“Your wife, she understands that sometimes duty demands that we have to make sacrifices?”

“She’s a team player.”

“All right. I need you to make contact with a female person of interest. You need to get with our ‘Antifa’ friend Sal. You two can work out who makes the play, how to run it. Here are the details.”

“What about Joe?”

“I happen to know that Joe is going to be out of town for a little bit.”

© 2020 Nolan O’Brian

64

Wednesday, March 17, 2021, 5:15 PM Eastern Daylight Time

The Presidential Physician, Dr. Vincent Bloombach, had been sitting for three and a half hours in the waiting area, a time during which he was resolutely ignored by Mrs. Johnson, the Presidential Receptionist.

In those hours, Dr. Bloombach, in his starched military uniform, smiled and nodded as various people were shown into the office ahead of him: reality television stars, the Irish ambassador, a wheeled dessert tray from the White House kitchen staff, a female evangelical minister, a girl scout troop from Arkansas, a delegation from the Jesus Athletic Fellowship, the Attorney General, a delivery person from Tennessee Fried Chicken, and finally, a famous commentator from Wolf News.

The President himself finally appeared at the door as his last visitor left the Oval Office. He did not shake hands with the commentator; he merely stood in his odd accustomed way facing him, leaning forward slightly, arms at his sides, palms facing backwards.

“Great to speak with you as always, Ian,” the President said. “I’ll call in to your show some time soon.”

“Do you validate parking?” Flannelly said to the receptionist, as if mugging for a camera. From her utter lack of response, it was clear that this was not the first time he had tried this gag on her. He turned back to his host.

“Well, thank you so much, Mr. President. Our special on the third term will be airing soon. Give ‘em hell, sir!”

“That’s great,” the President said, a bit distractedly. “You too.”

“You can depend upon it, sir,” Flannelly said, a bit too enthusiastically. The President motioned for him to go, and Flannelly turned, still grinning, and walked with one of the aides away down the corridor.

“Okay, Doc, I guess you’re next,” the President said. “I told you I’d rather do this on a weekend.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I know this is a little inconvenient.”

Dr. Bloombach rose as the President turned and began to walk into the office. He hastened to catch up.

The President walked around the Resolute desk and sat down.

“What do you want? We just had the checkup.”

“Mr. President, how are you feeling?” the doctor asked, as he took a seat in a chair facing the desk.

“What do you mean? Why are you wasting my time? I’m a busy guy. I don’t have the virus again, do I?”

“No, sir. It’s not that. Sir, it’s just that some of your other results were a little non-standard this time.”

The President stared at him for a moment.

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, sir,” the doctor said, clearing his throat, “the MRI picked up some abnormalities. We’d like to do some more tests to make sure.”

“Abnormalities? More tests? What are you trying to say? Abnormalities?”

“Well, sir, normally we would be able to catch this earlier, due to the jaundice that accompanies it, but that symptom was, uh….” Here the doctor struggled to find the correct words. “…We were unable to detect that symptom for certain dermo- chromatic reasons. But we can’t be sure until we, uh….”

“Spit it out,” the president said.

“Well, sir…it appears you may, and I emphasize the word may, since we need to do those further tests, you may have an advanced case of pancreatic cancer.”

The President was silent for a long moment, his eyes narrowed. Then he got to his feet.

“FAKE NEWS!” he said.

“Sir?”

“FAKE. NEWS.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I don’t have anything. Your tests are wrong.”

“Sir, there are treatment options…”

“No treatment. No options. You said I was going to live to be 200!”

“That wasn’t me, sir… I think that was your previous physician. If you want to get a second opinion…”

“No opinions! I have the only opinion that’s needed. I beat the virus, so now I’m fine. Or it’s your fault. Now get out of here.”

“Sir… I think you need…”

“You think? Get out of here.”

“Mr. President, it’s my duty…”

“Your duty? I’m the customer here! I say your duty! And your duty is to get the hell out of here!” The President pointed to the door angrily.

Dr. Bloombach got to his feet unsteadily and started to back away, hitting the couch behind him and almost falling. He turned and walked toward the exit, ashen-faced.

The President then yelled, “Stop!”

The doctor turned, confused.

“I want you to remember, you signed a non-disclosure agreement,” the President said.

“A non-disclosure agreement? Uh, yes,” the doctor said.

“If I hear you say a peep about this fake-news pancreatic thing, I’ll destroy you and your whole family,” the President said.

The doctor simply looked at him, stricken. He turned again and walked with increasing velocity out the office door.

The President picked up the phone and barked, “Mrs. Johnson?”

“Yes, sir?”

He could hear her outside the door as well as through the phone.

“Mrs. Johnson, who do I talk to to find a new presidential doctor?”

“I’ll get right on it, sir.”

The President hung up the phone and sat down. He felt around his ample waist. Where was the pancreas, even? Did he even have one? Hadn’t it been removed?

Both hands still on his midriff, he looked across the office at the portrait of George Washington.

“‘I cannot tell a lie,’” he murmured. “Well, neither can I. Nothing I say is a lie. I said it, it’s true. I do it, it’s the law.”

He stared at the portrait for a moment longer, then at the portrait of Honest Abraham Lincoln.

Then he picked up the phone again.

“Mrs. Johnson? …I want to swap out some of the pictures in here.”

© 2020 Nolan O’Brian

Part Four

Nothing Left to Lose

65

Friday, March 19, 2021, 8:30PM Eastern Daylight Time

The regular Friday meeting of SNRM was wrapping up at Douglass College, and several new members were at the front getting signed up. Jenna was sitting at the registration table when Vaneida walked by.

“You seen Joe?” Vaneida asked.

“No,” Jenna said. “I think Janice said he told her he had a business trip or something.”

“How are you doing?”

“I’m good. Eye’s totally healed.”

Vaneida cast a glance at Jenna’s face.

“Yeah, you would hardly notice it,” she finally said. “You ‘ve almost lost your bragging rights.”

Someone called Vaneida’s name, and she walked away to answer the query. Jenna finished writing something on a piece of paper, and then looked up to see a blond, 40-ish, close-cut, fit man at the front of the line, with a twitchy, shorter, younger, Mediterranean-looking man next to him.

“Fill this out here, with your name, address, email, all that stuff,” Jenna said, handing the blond man a piece of paper. “Or you can go on-line and sign up.”

“I’m Craig,” said the blond man. “What’s your name?”

“Uh, Jenna,” Jenna said. “First time?”

“Yeah, I’ve never gone to one of these and I thought I’d check it out,” the blond man said.

“Yeah, things slowed down a bit after the election, but now the interest is rising again,” Jenna said. “What’s your friend here’s name?”

The shorter man leaned over and extended a hand. “I’m Sal.”

The blond man gave him what seemed to be a meaningful look.

“Jenna,” Jenna said, shaking his hand.

“What are the dues for this?” the blond man asked her.

“Dues?” Jenna said, puzzled.

“You know, the money you need to pay for membership?”

“Oh, we don’t have that,” Jenna said.

“How do you pay for the organization?”

“Uh, well, there isn’t much to pay for,” Jenna said. “We just meet. The university lets us use the room as long as we sign it out. I guess they do that for all campus organizations.”

“Huh. I guess I’m used to organizations charging membership fees or dues,” the blond man said.

“Yeah, well, I guess I never thought about that,” Jenna said. “Although, maybe I’m not such a great representative of the group here. I think I did hear Vaneida – Professor Allen over there – say that any donations would be gratefully accepted, so if you WANT to give some money I’m sure we can get you a receipt for your taxes or whatever.”

“Yeah, I might want to do that,” the blond man said.

“You guys must get some money from somebody, for upkeep, or whatever,” the twitchy man said.

“Upkeep?”

“Well, I heard you guys had Okomo here last month,” he said. “That had to cost a little more than popcorn money.”

Jenna’s eyes narrowed. “I… I don’t know anything about that,” she said. “He didn’t charge us anything. I think between the university and the District and the Secret Service, it was pretty much covered.”

The blond man interjected, as if intervening to save the conversation, “Yeah, I’m sure it was. It’d be nice, though, if maybe some rich guys pitched in and offered to help out with expenses, what with the inequality rising and all.”

Jenna did not know what to say to this. After a moment, she said, “Are you offering money? Do you know someone like that?”

The blond man paused for a second, as if thinking quickly on his feet.

“Well, you never know,” he finally said. “I’ll keep it in mind in case I run into a billionaire.”

The twitchy man abruptly turned around and stifled a laugh.

“So, if you fill these out, we can put you on the list,” Jenna said, handing another sign-up sheet to the twitchy man.

“Thank you,” the blond man said. “Hey, I’m sorry I missed Okomo. I’m a big fan. You think he’ll ever be back at one of these meetings?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Jenna said. “You’d probably have to ask Vaneida – Professor Allen. She talks to him every once in a while.”

“Maybe I will,” the blond man said. “Thanks for these. Oh, one final dumb question – do people get together after these meetings, maybe for a drink? We’d like to get to know them a little better.”

“There’s a bar across the street. Sometimes some of us end up there.”

The blond man raised the sign-up sheet to his head as if in valediction.

“Thanks again. I hope to be a regular here.”

“Me too,” said the twitchy man.

“Okay,” Jenna said.

As they walked out of the room, the blond man leaned over and whispered in Sal’s ear, “I thought I made clear, no real names.”

“Ah shit,” Sal said. “I’m sorry, Terry.”

The blond man looked at him incredulously as they walked out, and then shook his head.

© 2020 Nolan O’Brian

66

Tuesday, March 23, 2021, 12PM Moscow Standard Time

Sergei Borisevich knocked on the President’s door.

“Enter,” the President said.

“Gospodin Prezident,” Sergei said.

“What is it, Sergei?”

“Gospodin Prezident, I feel I must inform you that there are reports that unknown forces have apparently rebelled against the governments of the Baltic States beginning early this morning, and are in possession of large swaths of the territories adjacent to the Motherland.”

“Really?” the President said, raising an eyebrow and smiling slightly.

“Da,” Sergei said, also smiling. “The forces that have arisen are reported not to wear any official markings.”

“Zelyonye Chelovechki?” the President asked. Then in English, he asked, “Little Green Men?”

“No,” Sergei said.

“No?”

“Actually, this time, they are Belyye Chelovechki. Little White Men. They wear ski suits.”

“Very interesting,” the President said. “This is of course something I will need to stay on top of. This instability on our borders demands great vigilance on our part. Perhaps even direct investigation. It is such a convenient coincidence that I will be meeting with the head of our Special Operations directorate in… well, right now.”

“That is most convenient indeed, Gospodin Prezident. In fact, I think I saw him outside your door as I entered.”

“Well, if he has gone to all that trouble, perhaps you should send him in, Sergei Borisevich,” the President said, still smiling slightly.

“Konechno,” Sergei said, and backed out of the President’s office, also smiling.

© 2020 Nolan O’Brian

67

Tuesday, March 23, 2021, 4AM Eastern Daylight Time

This is crazy stuff, the President thought to himself as he flipped through Revelation.

The Beast of Revelation, he thought to himself. But which one am I? There were several.

The first one was just goofy. The Beast from the Sea. Seven heads but ten horns? How does that work? And a crown on each horn, but none on any of the heads?

But then there was this Scarlet Beast. He liked that more. Maybe it was the same beast, this Revelation thing was so screwy you couldn’t tell. The Scarlet Beast was more like him. He was tan, which was a little like scarlet.

And he was “ridden by a harlot.” He wouldn’t say it to anyone else, but that did sound like him. And the harlot rules all the kings of the earth. So, she’s got to be a looker, he thought. And she’s riding yours truly.

Suddenly the pain in his lower abdomen shot from his back to his stomach. He grunted loudly in pain.

The door opened, as always. “Your pills, sir?” Carver said.

He simply nodded vigorously. Carver swiftly retrieved them and brought them with a glass of water. The President wolfed them down.

“Do you want me to get anyone else?” Carver asked.

“No. No, Carver, that’ll be all.”

“Yes, sir.” Carver exited.

I gotta get that Zed guy back to the Oval Office, he thought. He turned back to the last book of the Bible.

© 2020 Nolan O’Brian

68

Tuesday, March 23, 2021, 8AM Eastern Standard Time

“What the…” Hunter Laszlo said, over his muffin in the socially-distanced corner of the DuPont Starbucks.

“What the…” He reread the headline in the New York Record on his phone.

Administration Finds No Manipulation of Data by Federal Agencies

Says Complaints by Some Insiders Part of “Deep State” Resistance

He paged down to the text.

An Inspector General’s report has concluded that complaints that official statistics were altered to provide the President’s re- election campaign “good numbers” to support his re-election were “completely unfounded.”

“I specifically told her I didn’t think they had succeeded in doing that!” Hunter said to himself.

A senior administration official told the Record that accusations that Department of Health and Human Services numbers for virus cases and deaths, which some sources have said began to rebound around the country in the fall of last year, had been systematically “smoothed” and a downward trend shown in order to benefit the President were “categorically false.” The official, who spoke anonymously in order to comment frankly on administration policy…

“In order to lie about administration policy,” Hunter muttered.

…said that they were aware of complaints regarding statistics issued by the executive branch, as well as organizational changes such as moving long-established statistical agencies out of the Washington, D.C. metropolitan area, and that these complaints had been investigated by independent Inspectors General…

“Independent my ass,” Hunter said. “They fired every Inspector General who showed a lick of independence!”

He read on, increasingly angry.

…and found to be “without merit.” No official Inspector’s General report has been issued on the subject, but the official stated that he expected it would come out “no later than summer.”

And when summer comes, well, the official administration statisticians will say it’s still winter, so technically they’re not late issuing this report, Hunter thought to himself. I have to call her, he thought next.

He stood up and walked out of the Starbucks onto New Hampshire Avenue. He stalked north a hundred feet, to get away from the DuPont Circle noise, and hit her number on his phone.

“Kathleen Kiersay,” a voice answered.

“Kathleen,” Hunter said.

“Who is this?”

“Hunter Laszlo,” he responded.

“Oh, hey,” she said. “You saw the story?”

“Yeah, I did,” he said.

“So, what do you think?”

“What do I think?” he said. “What do I think? I think you fucked the whole thing up.”

“Excuse me?”

“I gave you something that was going to require deep digging,” Hunter said. “I gave you a story that, if reported correctly, might have helped save the republic, and truth, and democracy.”

“Really? I thought it was about the Department of Agriculture.”

“I can’t believe this,” Hunter said. “I put myself on the line for this.”

“You think you’re the only source on this?”

“Obviously not. Obviously, you simply took what I said and went to get comments from the most senior official you could find, to sweeten your beat. Who was it, anyway?”

“You know I can’t reveal my sources. I protected you, so I have to protect them.”

“Somehow I think they can protect themselves. Me, I just might be fucked, however.”

“How?”

“These people know who’s who. They have a way of making their displeasure known that tends to end careers. Or worse.”

What a paranoid loon, thought Kathleen.

“Well I’m sorry you feel this way,” Kathleen said.

“What do you think your job is?” Hunter said.

“I think I know what my job is,” Kathleen said. Great, another Jim Hasselblad telling me I’m personally destroying America.

“I don’t think you do,” Hunter said. “I gave you the Pentagon Papers and you turned it into just another Five O’Clock Follies Vietnam body-count pass-through report. Did you even check into the departments I named? Did you even investigate the whole privatization thing?”

“I did,” Kathleen said, increasingly testy.

“And?”

“It’s been a trend for decades,” she said. “It’s not something new. You know why they call it ‘news,’ right?”

“But has anyone reported it in all those years? How schools, and armies, and intelligence, and space, and public transportation, and government administration, and even courts and prisons, and now of course official government numbers, are all being sold off to the highest bidder? And especially how it’s gotten a hundred times worse since 2016?”

“I asked about it, and they answered.”

“Did you press them? Did you do adequate upfront research to figure out the nature of the problem, so they couldn’t just put you off with some plausible-sounding sound-bite? You didn’t, did you?”

“Listen,” Kathleen said angrily, “I am a professional.”

“You’ve got the degrees, right?”

“I do, and I’ve got the experience as well. I’ve been doing this job for decades.”

“So how come it doesn’t anger you that the Secretary of Homeland Security – sorry, the ACTING Secretary of Homeland Security – is a fucking college student? That the Acting Director of National Intelligence is some Hollywood agent? Why do YOU have to have degrees and experience to do your job, and I have to have degrees and experience to do my job, but the people in the most important jobs in government don’t have to do anything but service the President’s nether regions?”

Kathleen was silent.

“You know this could kill us all, right? We don’t even have an Acting Secretary of Energy. But who cares, right? All that guy does is watch over our nuclear stockpiles, right? So you’re not watching while maybe someone decides to privatize our nuclear stockpile! If not you, WHO? This is your job, right? I don’t see anyone else out there with the resources, reach, or budget to even think about covering that beat. For all we know, the Russians could have already taken it all away!”

Raving, thought Kathleen.

“You left me hanging,” Hunter said. “Did you tell him my name?”

Kathleen was silent again. Then she said in indignation, “I never reveal my sources.”

“I don’t know if I can trust you on that,” Hunter said. “I really don’t. That was some pause right there before you answered. I gave you a real story. A big, big story. I thought you cared about the fact that this administration is breaking every norm, breaking our government. How can you take what I told you about this crime spree, and simply take it to the criminals and ask them what they think? This is what I mean by, ‘Do you know what your job is?’”

“I have to go,” Kathleen said, with a cold edge to her voice.

“How can you trust these people? How can you simply take their word for anything?”

Hunter hit the button on his phone to end the conversation. As the call disappeared from his screen another New York Record story popped up:

Virus Deaths Fall to 10-Month Low, Says HHS

He muttered a curse under his breath, shut off his phone screen, wheeled around in disgust, and walked back toward the Circle.

© 2020 Nolan O’Brian

69

Tuesday, March 23, 2021, 10:00 AM Eastern Standard Time

Jane was walking back home from the Free Clinic again with her prescriptions, thinking about the last few weeks.

All her efforts to travel to a “blue state” had come to naught. She had no job, no money, no car, no excuse to leave town. The calendar was moving very swiftly. Even blue states had cutoff dates. From the Internet, the key moments seemed to be 20 or 24 weeks. She was, by her calculations, at 13 weeks. She had begun to wear loose-fitting clothing to conceal the increasingly qualm-producing area of her anatomy. She spent even more time on her laptop in her room, looking for solutions to her situation. Her parents did not notice, given her mother’s hectic work and church schedule and her father’s continuing political obsession.

She had made some attempts to contact the father. “Father” seemed to be the wrong word. Jake had turned out to be more of an infant. When she had tracked him down easily from his prominent and well-funded role in “the movement,” as he had called it, he had reacted with panic, then a sort of crazed self-righteousness that had bordered on threat.

“You took advantage of me being a celebrity,” he had actually responded. She had laughed at that, then responded “Thought you people were all about personal responsibility and family values.”

This had not had a constructive effect. He flipped between accusing her of entrapment, demanding that she “take care of it yourself,” and lecturing her about her own morality.

Ultimately, when she asked him for some money, so she could “take care of it,” as he wanted, he had screamed about blackmail, swiveled to denouncing abortion as murder, then simply blocked her. She had shortly afterward been the recipient of several threatening texts from unknown numbers, which she had deduced were those of friends of his. She thought about going to the police, but then everything would come out, and that was the last thing she wanted to happen.

Well, maybe the second-to-last thing. Having this jerk hypocrite rapist’s baby was the last thing, she thought, as she trudged toward home. She could have the baby and give it up for adoption, but the thought of that made her sick as well. And that would require her leaving for several months as well, so without money, that would be hopeless as well.

Why couldn’t she have held out to get to know Billy, that surfer dude? He seemed so much nicer than this complete dickhead she had ended up with.

The entire past three months had been like a bad dream. At first, before she knew she was pregnant – she still had difficulty even thinking the word – she had successfully repressed the entire memory of the encounter. Since then, she had been holding panic at bay with more and more difficulty.

The experience had been quite reminiscent, she thought as she crunched her way home step by step over gravel and asphalt and the occasional melting snow patch, of a period in her life about five years earlier, when her brother had hanged himself.

Her mother had almost gone out of her mind with grief. Her father, sensing that it was his role as the newly returned prodigal parent, had kept his own sorrow in check, taking care of the funeral arrangements and shielding her mother from the official investigation, the autopsy, and the like. Jane had observed his performance appreciatively but numbly, as if from a distance. She had watched her mother cry herself to exhaustion only to resume crying again when she woke again. The only coherent words she heard her mother utter during that period before the funeral were, “At least Jane didn’t have to see him.”

But I did see him, Jane thought to herself as she walked toward home.

She had come home after school and made herself a snack like a good latchkey kid. She had turned the TV on and watched it for maybe half an hour. Then she had gone to the bathroom.

She had opened the door, and almost as quickly, she had shut it. She had begun shaking uncontrollably. She then had whirled around, looking for she did not know what, and had grabbed her backpack and coat, and had rapidly walked out of the house and locked the door and begun walking around the neighborhood in random directions for several hours.

Eventually she had made her way to a friend’s house. By then the shaking had subsided, or maybe the cold had simply made it more explicable. She had knocked on the door and been let in by her friend’s mother, who, distracted by other children, had noticed nothing amiss. She had made her way to her friend’s bedroom, where she had been playing music.

What’s wrong with you, her friend had said. You look like you saw a ghost.

Jane had simply smiled and sat down. Her friend had begun talking about boys and school and clothes, and Jane had interjected just enough encouragement that she had continued for the better part of ninety minutes, until Jane’s own phone had rung, and it had been her father asking her please to come home.

Which she did not want to do, because if she had just stayed there, the whole thing would not have to be real. But she had left and gone home and everyone had said she had taken the news with great maturity and poise.

And now she was in the midst of another crisis. But this time her parents had not an inkling that it existed, and unlike her brother’s suicide, this crisis just kept going on and on without resolution. She was thinking that she needed to figure out some way to deal with this thing when she came to the door of the house and put her key in the lock and turned it, just as she had five years ago. Except this time, and every time since that awful day, she remembered how carefree she had been that day as she opened the door, and she was reminded that she might never be that carefree ever again.

She walked into the house and saw her father at the kitchen table. He was on the phone.

“No, I won’t forget this time, I promise. Okay. Okay. Yeah, I’ll tell her. She just walked in. Okay. Love you. Bye.” He ended the call.

“Mom?” Jane asked.

“Yeah. She reminded me of something I should have told you a couple of weeks ago.”

Yeah, well, I have something I should have told you back in December, she thought.

“What was it?” she said, aloud.

“We are going out to dinner with your cousin Joe,” her dad said.

“When?”

“A week,” he replied. “Next Monday. You free?”

At first, Jane thought, I don’t want to get all dressed up for nothing and go out to dinner. Then she had a sudden thought.

“Yeah, that sounds great,” she said. “Where are we going?”

“That fancy steakhouse near the airport,” Jeff said. “It could be fun. He’s an interesting guy. Did you know he’s working for the President now?”

“No,” Jane said. “I knew he had some kind of cool job in Washington.”

She restrained herself from flinching as she turned the knob on the bathroom door, as she had done for five years now.

This could be my lifeline, Jane thought, as she opened the door and walked in.

© 2020 Nolan O’Brian