Author's Notes: This story has been percolating in my head as the political scene in the US heats up before the 2020 presidential election. I didn't know exactly how to connect the dots between Alex and Piper at first, and then it hit me, so I began writing about three months ago. It stands at roughly 200 pages, so it's a long one.

In this fictitious world, Trump never existed. I know enough about US government to get by, but by no means am I an expert on how bills/laws get passed. There are bound to be procedural errors in this story and things that would never happen in the real world, but I hope you can look past them and enjoy the tale for what it is. Also, I'm going to label this OOC. Finally, a HUGE thanks to my beta, IrishViking20. She has helped me think deeply about character roles and overall flow of this somewhat complicated story.

I'll post a chapter every two days or so except on weekends. Hope you enjoy...

Although I enjoyed history and government classes in school, I had no political aspirations. I only followed politics in election years or when something terrible happened in the world when almost every other American tuned in to the news right along with me. Law school seemed appealing from an altruistic standpoint—I could defend the less fortunate and marginalized—but it was also a way for me to buy three more years to figure out what the hell I wanted to do with my life.

It wasn't until clerking for a local judge during my second year of law school when my appetite became whet for justice. In my last year of law school, I interned for the Civil Rights & Justice League where I learned about fellowships I could apply for even before passing the Bar Exam. Ultimately, I was granted the Christine A. Brunswick Taxation Public Service Fellowship where I discovered the need for tax service assistance for low income families around the country. While it wasn't glamorous, it opened my eyes to the poverty cycle in America and helped me understand the concept of privilege.

Over the next three years, I broadened my political and professional scope from taxation issues to gun control to women's rights, which ultimately led to a job in the Stamford mayor's office where I first served as a research analyst and then became a policy advisor. By the ripe age of 30, I ran for City Council where I served three years as chair of the Housing, Health, Energy & Workers' Rights committee and vice chair of the Gender Equity, Safe Communities & Education committee. With the encouragement of the mayor and support of the governor, I put in a bid to run for Connecticut State Senate.

I won.

Along the way, I met Larry Bloom, a writer for The Stamford Advocate. He made me laugh, was a good conversationalist and supported my political aspirations. It didn't hurt that he came from a wealthy New York family with a clean past and a promising future. I was happy enough and the optics were good, so I married him. It was the practical thing to do.

By my second term in the Senate, the sizzle was gone (if ever it were there), but Larry and I were comfortable with the way things stood. We looked good in photographs and were even featured on the cover of a few magazines. He provided excellent sound bites to the media, and on the outside, we looked like the perfect married couple who were trying to start a family—at least that's what we told the world.

"I don't want to have kids," I blurted out one late night as I packed my suitcase for what would be my first dinner at the White House.

Larry crawled into bed. "And you feel the need to bring this up at quarter to midnight the day before your trip?"

"There's never been a good time to mention it."

"This isn't something you mention, Piper," he huffed. "It's something we discuss as husband and wife."

I gave him a look—he knew how much I hated it when he referred to me as his wife in private. I'd explained it to him before—it felt like I was his possession.

"You were pregnant, Piper…"

"Yes, and I lost the baby…twice." I placed a few more items into my suitcase. "It's like the universe is telling me I'm not supposed to have children."

"Is that really what you think? That there's some cosmic force denying you the chance to be a mother?"

"Maybe." I zipped the suitcase, placed it on the floor and sat on the bench at the foot of our bed. "It just doesn't feel right."

I knew what was coming next. His face contorted and he tilted his head slightly. It's his I'm going to say something asinine look. "Did you feel that way when you had a fetus growing inside of you?"

I didn't answer his question not because I couldn't, but because I didn't want to wound him with my response. The first time I got pregnant was on our honeymoon and it was a total surprise. The pregnancy only lasted ten weeks—not long enough for me to prepare for how I envisioned myself as a mother. The second time, Larry and I agreed to try, but my heart was never in it. I wanted to have children because that's what women do. It wouldn't have hurt from a political angle either. That pregnancy lasted 12 weeks, and truth be told, I was relieved after the miscarriage. I struggled with that emotion for a long time—being relieved that I lost a child—but eventually I convinced myself that it was ok not to be a parent.

I couldn't find the words to answer Larry's question; instead, I moved to my side of the bed and turned off the lamp. "It's late. I have an early flight."

"That's it?" He was still sitting up in bed. "That's the end of the conversation?"

I pulled the sheets over me. "Yes."

"You can be so fucking selfish."

My back was turned to him, but I felt the mattress dip and figured he laid down and turned away from me.

Just like there never seemed to be a good time to talk about having a family, there was never going to be a good time to tell him something I'd been thinking about for the past five years. "I'm going to run for President."

I felt him roll over. "Excuse me?"

"I'm going to run for President," I repeated, still with my back to him.

"President of what?"

A smile crossed my face as I said it aloud for the first time. "President of the United States."

"Have you lost your mind? Running for the Senate is one thing, but President of the fucking country?"

I sat up, twisting my neck, halfway staring at him in the dark. "Do I have your support?"

"First the whole not wanting to have children thing and now you're running for President? What has gotten into you tonight? Did you get high without me knowing?"

Sharing a bed with Larry felt wrong that night, so I pulled on my robe and proceeded to the bedroom doorway, flicking on the hall light. "Think about it while I'm away for the next couple of days. I can't do this without you."

I didn't define what that last line meant, but if Larry was as smart as I hoped he was, he'd know I meant it as a political statement not as a loving one. If he didn't support my run for President, that would likely lead to divorce, and no one would get elected to the White House as a single, newly divorced candidate. It would be hard enough to be elected as the first female President, but a recently divorced woman would be the death nail.

"Madam President, you really need to get dressed."

I glance up from my briefing book and find my personal aide glancing at her watch. "I thought you said I had another hour, Chris?"

"It's been one hour and four minutes, ma'am." She nods towards the grandfather clock. "Make that one hour and five minutes."

"We're no closer to new gun control laws than we were two years ago." I slam the book shut. "I've got Byron climbing down my neck and a whole swath of Democrats wondering if I'm going to make good on my campaign promise."

Chris helps me into my blazer. "We're close…I can feel it."

I breeze through the hallways, flanked by a Secret Service agent and three staffers. I've long since abandoned the idea of walking anywhere alone.

"Where's Larry?"

"Probably schmoozing with other journalists," Chris answers. "You know how much he loved last year's Correspondents' Dinner."

"I probably don't need to remind you this, Madam President, but you need to enter the room together," my Communications Director, Warren Tharler, states.

"Then find him." I enter my bedroom alone, closing the door and leaning heavily against it.

"You have 20 minutes, ma'am," she calls.

I glance around the expansive bedroom, wondering when was the last time I slept with my husband. It had to be a year ago, maybe longer. Larry's bedroom is next to mine and there's an adjoining door in case we're ever in a situation when we need to appear to be leaving "our" bedroom together. That issue hasn't presented itself, but we're prepared if it does. My closest staff members know that Larry and I are only husband and wife on paper, but they dare not bring it up even in private. I trust them implicitly, and I've never worried about any of them leaking such a potential landmine.

I kick off my shoes and pad over to the armoire where my glittery ball gown is draped on a hanger. I rub the material between my fingers, wondering how much this dress costs. I haven't seen a bill for anything in the two years I've been President, but my guess is there's never a bill for a gown even if it was custom designed by Vera Wang.

As I unbutton my blouse, two Secret Service agents come barreling through my bedroom door.

"What the hell?"

One of the agents speaks into her wrist band, "The President is secure."

Chris rushes in behind them. "Madam President, thank God you're alright."

"What's going on?"

Three other agents hastily enter the room, each walking to a different window or door, feeling around the edges. Another agent enters Larry's room.

I slice my hands through the air. "Can someone please tell me what the fuck is happening?"

The head of my security detail enters the room. I've known Agent Paulson since day one in the White House. I also know if he's been called in, something serious is going on.

"There's been an incident, Madam President," he says with a stoic face. "I'm sorry to inform you that Mr. Bloom has been shot."

I step back, hand flying to my mouth. "Is he ok?"

"They're taking him to the hospital." He bows his head.

"Oh my God." I collapse onto an armchair. "What happened?"

"He was at the Capitol Lounge with a few journalists before tonight's Correspondents' Dinner," Agent Paulson replies. "Four of them walked out together and a spray of bullets rang out from a moving vehicle."

I quickly get to my feet. "I have to see him."

He steps in front of me. "I'm sorry, but we can't allow that."

"My husband was just shot and you're telling me I can't see him?" I spit out.

"I'm afraid not, ma'am. Not until we've secured the scene and ensure that the hospital is safe for you to enter."

"Aren't hospitals innately safe?" I spin around, covering my mouth again. I feel sick to my stomach.

"For the general public they are," he says. "Not necessarily for the President of the United States."

"That's ridiculous." I'm going to vomit, so I quickly head to the bathroom. "Get a car ready. I expect to be at the hospital within the hour."

By the time I arrive at the hospital, Larry is pronounced dead from a gunshot wound to the neck. I go numb as the head surgeon relays everything they did to try to revive him. There was too much blood loss rings in my head like a two-ton bell.

For the next five days, I could hardly speak. I couldn't sleep, couldn't eat and couldn't face the public. I couldn't be the President of the United States, and that was beginning to be a problem. My vice-President stepped in, a move I'm told the country expected and understood. The people who never wanted me in the White House to begin with, namely the Far Right, have their heyday, saying how weak I am—this is why a woman should've never been elected to the highest position in the land. I don't have the strength to fight back.

After nearly a week of mourning, I'm told that I have to make a statement; there's no circumventing it.

"With all due respect, Madam President, we have to come up with something in the next hour," Warren states.

"I can't do this with all of you in the room." I run a hand through my hair, eyeing the seven staffers standing around. "You're all excellent speech writers, but I can't do this."

"Very well, then. Who would you like to stay, ma'am?" he asks.

"You, Eileen and Jane. That's it."

Jane Hershberg has been my press secretary through the campaign and into my presidency. Before I even had an inkling that I'd run for President, Jane handled my communications in the Senate. Eileen O'Sullivan has been my chief of staff for two years, but we worked together in the Stamford's mayor's office way back when. I trust her even more than I trust Warren and Jane.

Eileen places her hand over mine. "I know this is difficult, Madam President, but Warren is right."

I shift my eyes from one staffer to the other. "I need you to do something for me."

"Anything," she replies.

"I need you to call me Piper—I need you to treat me like Piper. I can't be Madam President or ma'am or anything other than me right now."

"With all due respect…" Warren begins.

Jane sits next to me. "We're going to help you through this, Piper. I promise."

Warren and Eileen uncomfortably acquiesce. "Whatever you need."

I nod and take in a few deep breaths before diving in. "I'm devastated Larry was killed," I begin with a shaky voice. "Even though we haven't been real partners in years, he stayed by my side; supported me." I grab a Kleenex and dab my eyes. "I'm struggling with the truth right now—I don't want to lie in a statement to the public about how much I loved him or how he was my source of inspiration or the man of my dreams. I mean, I loved him, but…"

"I know," Eileen whispers. "I know you loved him. We don't have to use any words of unyielding love. We can find a heartfelt way to express your grief."

Warren sits at the desk and starts writing furiously on a legal pad.

I turn to Jane. "Can you imagine how guilty I feel? I didn't love him the way a wife should love her husband. Why did I stay with him when he could've been so much happier with someone else?" Tears stream down my face.

"He had a choice—you didn't make him stay in this marriage."

"He knew if we separated or got divorced, there was no way I'd be elected," I sniff. "And after I became President, he stayed with me so we could pretend to be this happy couple. I shouldn't have allowed him to do that."

"Larry was a grown man. If he wanted out, he would've not only told you, but he would've pressured you to end things. You could've come up with an exit strategy." Eileen shakes her head. "He wanted to be with you."

"That makes this even harder." I lower my head and weep. "I was a horrible wife."

"You weren't a horrible wife." Jane, the more sensitive of the three, wraps her arms around me. "You're a grieving woman. You're allowed to cry and mourn the loss of your husband." She pulls back and lifts my chin until we're eye to eye. "You're also the President of the United States. You don't have the luxury of time."

I nod.

"I got it." Warren stands and reads the brief but earnest statement.

"That's about as good as it'll get." I walk towards the bathroom. "Thank you, Warren. I want to be alone for the next half hour, please."

Eileen and Jane slip back into form. "Yes, ma'am. I'll ask Chris to come get you in 30 minutes."

It takes me a while to get back into the swing of things. Instead of working 10 to 12 hours days, I can only manage eight at a time. I lean on my staff to take meetings I normally would've sat in on. It isn't until well after Larry's funeral when I'm able to fully govern again, though the grief is almost crippling at times.

For the next six months, my primary focus is on gun control. The Republicans hate it because I have a very real and personal leg to stand on, and the Democrats love it because I'm able to show strength as a widow who lost her husband to gun violence and vulnerability by getting emotional "at the right time." My emotions are raw and real when I debate the issue with anyone, but the right wingers constantly attack me for playing the sob card on national television.

"We're putting it on the floor next week." I turn the corner and head towards the Oval Office.

"Madam President, we don't have the votes," Eileen states.

"We're 22 votes shy; maybe 23," her deputy, Blake Latham adds. "If we don't get Carpenter and Rappaport, the bill dies on the floor."

I enter the Oval Office and spin around. "This is the goal—this bill right here. You've had months to secure the votes and you're telling me with one week to go, we're still 22 votes shy?"

"More like 23," the deputy repeats, adjusting his tie.

"Not good enough." I move behind my desk. "Figure it out."

"I'm bringing in someone from the Coalition to Stop Gun Violence this afternoon," Eileen offers. "Consider it a last-ditch effort."

"I've already met with Vince Booker. He doesn't have the clout everyone seems to think he has."

My executive secretary, 70-something-year-old Mrs. Willoughby, hands me my schedule for the day, and I see that my 3 o'clock appointment is with the CSGV.

"This meeting isn't with Booker," Eileen continues. "It's with Edwin Nowak, the executive director."

I write his name next to the appointment. "Does Mr. Nowak have more sway with the opposition than his boss?"

"I'm not sure." Eileen shrugs. "But it's worth a shot."

"I want you, Blake, Jane, and Warren in the room. If Marvin Beard is in town, get him in there, too." I open my laptop. "Spend a few minutes with this guy to see if he has any teeth. If he does, I'll join you." I turn to Mrs. Willoughby. "Adjust my schedule accordingly."

"Yes, ma'am."

It's a typical day in the White House—I go from one meeting to the next about homelessness, then healthcare, then disaster relief in Mississippi, then a potential airline pilot's strike, and then an hour in the Situation Room. At 3 p.m., I wrap up the meet & greet with the National Little League Softball Champions and finally have a moment to myself in the Oval Office.

"The folks from the Coalition to Stop Gun Violence are in the Roosevelt Room," Mrs. Willoughby announces, handing me the second revised schedule of the day. I usually go through three or four before dinner.

Chris breezes in with my afternoon smoothie. "Kale, strawberry, peaches and banana this time."

"Thank you." I take a sip of the chef's latest concoction. "Not bad." I turn to Mrs. Willoughby. "Are they meeting yet?"

"Last time I checked Blake was gathering everyone."

"God forbid any meeting start on time." I scan the new schedule. "Why am I meeting with Stephanie Horowitz?"

"Re-election stuff," she says. "You pushed this meeting back last week, remember?"

I toss the schedule aside. "I'd like to push it back another week."

"You could, but then you'd be a little behind, ma'am. The Republicans have already had three debates."

I sigh. "Fine but cut it to 30 minutes instead of 45. I can kiss re-election goodbye if I don't get this gun control bill passed."

The women leave, and I lean my head back, shutting my eyes. Since Larry's death, I've tried to use every spare moment to meditate. I don't have time for a ten minute, guided meditation, so it's usually moments like this when I can find two or three minutes to focus on my breathing without thinking about all that needs to get done. If I get three uninterrupted minutes during the day, I consider it a success.

I hear a knock on the door, and Blake peeks his head inside. "Madam President?"

"Come in, Blake."

"We're in the room with the folks from the CSGV." He steps inside. "I'm pretty impressed."

"Folks? I thought it was only the executive director…" I glance at my old schedule. "Edwin Nowak?"

"He brought an associate." His dimples surface.

"Why are you grinning?"

"She's uh…" His smile grows. "Well, she's…"

I lower a folder and give him an admonishing stare. "If you're about to say something other than how apparently brilliant she is, you'd be well-served by holding your thoughts."

"Yes, ma'am." He adjusts his posture and clears his throat. "We may have found our ace in the hole."

"Are you suggesting I enter the conversation?"

"Yes, ma'am. If you can spare 15 minutes, I think it'll be worth your time."

"Mrs. Willoughby?" I call through the open door.

"Your schedule is cleared for the next 20," she calls back.

"Ok, Blake. Lead the way."

Flanked by a Secret Service agent, I follow Blake down the corridor, make a right and then a left until we reach the Roosevelt Room. The door is ajar, and Blake slips inside, taking a seat across from the woman talking. I remain in the doorway, allowing her to finish the speech she appears to be in the middle of.

"…We all want to blame somebody. People on the Left blame every type of gun. Those on the Right blame Hollywood and violent video games. The real issue we can all agree on is that we have to end gun violence. Period. That's why I'm here. It's what I can convince people in power to do." She pauses and surveys the room. The woman clearly doesn't know I'm here, and I decide to let it remain that way for the time being.

"I'm not talking about taking away a deer hunter's rifle or a person's right to carry a concealed weapon. A friend of mine had a gun permit in her purse right next to her Glock. I wasn't raised around guns, so it made me uncomfortable. One day I asked if she wouldn't mind leaving the gun at home when we went out. She told me, 'This gun saved my life.' Minimally, I thought she was exaggerating, so I questioned her," the woman lets out a light laugh and then sobers.

"Amanda was walking home from the grocery store just after sunset. She turned down her quiet, residential street when two men in a car approached her. One got out, threw her grocery bags to the ground and started dragging her to the vehicle. She cried for help, but the driver turned the music louder. He pushed her into the back seat and started ripping her shirt off. Her purse was dangling on her arm, and she did everything she could to reach inside to get the gun. He sat up to unzip his pants, essentially to rape her, and she pulled her gun out and shot him."

Everyone in the room is silent.

"Without that gun, Amanda would've certainly been raped and possibly killed." She pauses. "I don't want to take away her right to carry a registered pistol. I do, however, want to take away the right for anyone to buy a semi-automatic weapon and 30+ rounds of ammunition." She pauses before stating very clearly, "Nothing good can come from owning assault rifles unless you're in the Armed Forces, defending the very country that gives us the right to bear arms."

Eileen grins, folding her arms. I signal for her and everyone else on that side of the room to not let on that I'm there.

"I think what she's saying is…" a man who I can only assume is Edwin Nowak begins.

"What I'm saying is if the President puts forth this bill, increasing background checks and banning all weapons, the whole wave of 'feeling sorry for her after losing her husband' sentiment goes right out the window. The Right will scream at the top of their lungs that she's using a personal issue to advance her own leftist agenda. Some of them might even accuse her of having her husband murdered."

A few people gasp.

"Common sense gun laws were gaining traction before Mr. Bloom was shot," she continues. "If the President goes all-in with a total weapons ban, she will not only lose votes, but she can also forget about being re-elected."

"Who says I'm running for a second term?" I step further into the room, arms folded.

The dark haired woman whips her head around, and her mouth hangs open when she realizes I'm standing there. "Madam President, I…" she starts to get up.

"Keep your seat." I place a hand on her shoulder. "This gun law isn't about getting me re-elected, Ms…"

"Vause," she states. "Alex Vause."

She's far too attractive to be a lobbyist—she looks more like an actress or even a model.

"This bill is about doing what's best for our country. Yes, my husband was murdered by a semi-automatic weapon, and yes, that will haunt me every day of my life, but my stance on gun control has far more to do with day-to-day violence in America than it does with losing Larry to a senseless act."

"I'm deeply sorry for your loss, ma'am," she replies, adjusting her glasses. "I'm also with you on gun control, but your bill takes it too far—at least for now. I don't think the Moderates will be on board, and if you lose even half of them, the bill won't survive."

"We have seven Moderates locked in," Blake offers.

"You'll need all ten," Alex responds. "And 13 Republicans for a total of 23 votes."

I eye Eileen, who then speaks up. "What are you coming to the table with, Ms. Vause?"

"If you modify the bill, I can get 20 of the 23 votes."

Everyone in the room raises their eyebrows and a few people huff at her audacity.

"I don't think anyone in this room has that kind of sway with Congress," I state.

She leans forward and meets my eye. "With all due respect, Madam President, I do."

I hear one of my staffers ask under his breath, who is this woman? I'd surely like to know.

"Alex, I'm not sure if promising 20 votes is in our purview," Edwin Nowak responds with a nervous grin. "We can certainly corral 12, maybe 13, but 20 is a tall order."

"You hired me for this specific issue, Edwin. Give me a chance."

This Alex Vause, whoever she is, is putting her reputation and her job on the line. It's one of the ballsyest moves I've ever seen.

"I'll work with my people to see if we can get the language changed within the next 48 hours. If the subcommittee agrees, you have yourself a deal." I stand, tug on my blazer, and reach out to shake her hand. "Nice meeting you, Ms. Vause."

She squeezes my hand. "It's an honor, Madam President."

I'm the first to exit, and Chris, Eileen and Blake are hot on my heels, all leading with, "Madam President…"

I hear each of them but refrain from commenting on my way back to the Oval Office, stopping by my executive assistant's desk along the way. "Mrs. Willoughby, will you find time for Alex Vause from the CSGV to meet with me tomorrow?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"You're not seriously considering changing the bill?" Blake asks as we head into my office. "We worked on this thing for six months!"

"I'm sure you can modify it in 48 hours." I unbutton my blazer and sit behind my desk. "It's not like I'm asking you to rewrite it."

"What kind of response do you think we'll get in such a short amount of time?" he continues, hands on his hips.

"Hopefully a positive one," I add.

"You can't let one woman's speech change an entire bill, Madam President!"

"That will be enough, Blake," Eileen states with a firm nod in his direction. "A partial gun ban isn't a new idea for this administration; it's something we've toyed with over the past two years."

"Yeah, and when we took our first stab at it, we lost some Democratic support," Blake responds. "The last thing we need is to lose votes from our own party."

"If this is our chance to pass a gun control bill, we're taking it." I set my pen down. "When I'm re-elected, we can go at it a little stronger, maybe even change the Second Amendment."

He huffs. "Now you're dreaming."

Eileen gives him a stern look I'd never want to be on the other end of. "That will be all, Mr. Latham." She turns to me. "We'll have something on your desk in 48 hours, ma'am."

"Thank you."

Mrs. Willoughby pokes her head in. "Antonia Lopez and Daniel Hoang from the OMB are here."

"Give me five minutes."

The other staffers leave the room, and I quickly open my laptop and search for Alex Vause. My eyes didn't deceive me—she's attractive. There's something about her eyes and the set of her jaw. After staring at her photograph for a few more seconds than necessary, I scan her bio. Bachelor of Arts degree in political science from UCLA; Juris Doctorate from the University of Chicago; research and advocacy work for gun control in Illinois; worked on California's first-in-the-nation Gun Violence Restraining Order law; served as the Legislative Director of Californians to Prevent Gun Violence, a small, grassroots advocacy organization in San Francisco; and joined CSGV three months ago as the Director of National Affairs where she works with a wide array of constituencies to advance policies and programs to reduce gun violence.

I hit the Images button and am flooded with photos of Alex. Most of them are of her with groups, presumably organizations with whom she has worked. Four of them appear to be professional headshots, and only a few are candids of her out and about. I'm drawn to one in particular where she's wearing a Mohammed Ali shirt and red boxing gloves. I click on the image to make it larger and see that she was sparring with a partner. Her triceps are exposed as she's in the middle of a punch. It's the only picture where she's not wearing glasses.

"It's been five minutes, Madam President," Mrs. Willoughby announces.

"Right." I jump back in my seat like I was caught doing something…unpresidential. "Send them in."

My day ends near 10 p.m. and I crawl into bed after 17 meetings throughout the day and a long-ass business dinner with Eileen, Jane, the Senate Majority Whip and his wife. I pull out my laptop and resume my research on Alex Vause. Of course, my computer was scrubbed while I was at dinner, so all my bookmarks and recent searches are lost.

I punch in her name again and smile when the first image appears. I hit the videos button and am pleased to see there are three videos. The first is of her giving a speech to a room of middle-aged women. The second is tagged as a WMAQ Chicago news story about preventing gun violence. Alex issues a 20 second sound bite, using her hands to explain her point. I'm drawn to her long fingers and unpainted but well-manicured nails. The final video is of her walking along a path with another woman, again, using her hands to explain something. I watch that one a couple times. I like the way she moves; the way she carries herself—tall, strong, confident.

I fall asleep, computer on my lap, with thoughts of Alex Vause dancing in my head. It's the first decent night of sleep I've had in six months.