***
PART FIVE
***

We take our break, rolling the windows down so we can breathe the fresh air as
Dave drives us back to the house. Sam slips him an envelope - I saw him do the
same with the rabbi, earlier, and I make a mental note that I'll probably lose
later, to pay him back - and instead of Dave's car we take Virginia's so that I
can drive.

We don't go far, just to a seafood place up the street. We're ushered to our
places by a smiling hostess. I'm reminded that my grief is just that, mine, and
that the rest of the world won't be sharing it.

Donna stares at the menu. "What should I get?"

"You don't have favorites?"

"I'm a farm girl, Josh. What do I know from seafood?"

Laughing, I order stuffed flounder for her and seared tuna - charred, if
possible - for myself, while Sam opts for something to do with pasta and clams.
We eat our bread in silence, looking out over the ocean.

Finally, Donna speaks up. "We need to get a few more boxes, and some newspaper,
so I can wrap up the fragile stuff that you want to keep. Rosemary said she'll
have everything shipped to you so we won't have to worry about it."

"That's good." I drink the iced tea, grateful for the soothing coolness down my
parched throat. "It was different from Mrs. Landingham's service, huh?"

"Well, they were different women. And if the President had had his way, who
knows what he'd have concocted?" Sam butters a roll and passes the basket to
Donna. "You should've seen him when he called me into his office. When he asked
me to take care of you. I almost forgot how...how much I believed in him." He
stops, holding the roll in front of his mouth as if he wants to use it to shove
the words back in. "Believe. In him."

"Sam." I lower my voice, checking to make sure the tables around us are empty.
"You're entitled to this."

"I'm not. It's not appropriate. It's not about me."

"It's about all of us," Donna says, handing me the bread basket and scraping the
caraway seeds off her roll with a thumbnail. "We've been under a lot of
pressure. And people do crazy things under pressure."

Her voice cracks a little on the word "crazy," and Sam's face falls as we watch
her continue to denude her dinner roll of the seeds.

"She died when I was nineteen. My mother," Donna continues, looking at Sam to
see if he knows the story. He nods and strokes the back of her hand, the one
that's not dumping seeds into the bread plate. "It was in the fall. October
fifth. And I did some stupid things that day - and on that day in other years.
Because I was hurting, and afraid, and lonely, and I didn't tell anyone."

"October fifth?" I remember watching her tear that page from her diary.

She doesn't meet my eyes when she nods. "Yeah. And it can sometimes be more than
a little weird for me."

Sam has no idea that she's talking about this particular year. Donna examines
his face, obviously looking for a clue that he's heard about her indiscretion.
When she doesn't find one she visibly relaxes. "Anyway. Don't keep hiding it
away, Sam. It'll come back to haunt you in strange ways."

We stop talking as the waiter hands over our plates full of succulent seafood.
For a while nothing happens besides one of us asking for salt. Donna keeps her
eyes cast down on her plate, uncharacteristically silent, and for a few moments
I wonder if the necklace that's been burning a hole in my pocket since I took it
out of Mom's jewelry box could make her smile. But not here, not now.

Sam and I order key lime pie. Donna demurs, but I slice off a hunk of mine and
insist she take it. "You're turning into Esther, you know that," she says as she
lifts the fork to her lips.

"There are worse people to turn into." I watch as she savors the silky pie, and
Sam watches me watching her with a gentle, amused smile on his face.

"What's the game plan for the rest of the day?" he asks, distributing a portion
of his dessert onto Donna's plate.

"I'm going to need to go back to the apartment and finish packing, then wait for
the shipping guys and the people who are picking up the furniture." She must see
me shudder, because she puts her hand over mine. "Josh, this isn't something you
want to watch. You and Sam can just drop me off and go back to the house."

"Thanks." My throat is dry again and I take another swallow of iced tea. I fight
Sam for the check, pay it, and give the kid in the parking lot five bucks for
bringing my car back. We pause at the Dorchester. A couple of burly guys are
removing my mother's loveseat and putting it in a truck. Donna hugs us both and
gets out, letting Mike the doorman usher her into the building.

Sam gets into the front seat without a word. We drive back to the house in
silence, the breeze wafting through our hair as if to blow away the sadness of
the day.

Rosemary hands me a bunch of phone messages passed along by the White House,
along with something she's printed out for me. "Leo McGarry sent this fax and
asked me to give it to you. It's several pages."

I take the stack of paper while Sam goes upstairs to his room, saying something
about catching up on paperwork of his own. I stand in the hallway and watch him
ascend the stairs, then turn to the housekeeper. "Rosemary, could I trouble you
for directions to the kitchen? I'd love a beer, and I bet Sam would like one,
too."

"It's no trouble at all," she says, leading the way to a kitchen the size of my
entire apartment. She helps me pick out a couple of promising-looking bottles,
then I go upstairs and knock on Sam's door.

He's got his laptop open, looking at something with a lot of long words in it.
"What's up?" I ask him, placing a beer bottle by his right hand.

"I've got your life insurance policy. You need a new beneficiary. And I've got
to rewrite your will." He pauses to nod in thanks for the beer and to watch me
for a moment. "How are you feeling, Josh?"

"You've asked me that already today."

"And I'm going to keep doing it. How are you feeling?"

"I'm okay. Kinda...numb, you know? But functional."

"Functional's good." Sam returns to his computer screen, evidently satisfied
with my answer. "What's all the paper?"

"Fax from Leo. He's copied some of the condolence e-mails. The Vice-President.
Nancy McNally. Lord Marbury. The staff at 'Capitol Beat,' about half of
Congress, including Matt Skinner, and Al Caldwell." I stop when I see the
personal note Leo put at the bottom. The simple words - "Take care of yourself,
Josh" - break my heart all over again because they come from Leo. I have to
clear my throat before I can talk again. "Caldwell's planting six trees in
Israel."

"That's nice."

"It is. Nicer than I've been to some of them."

"No one keeps score at times like this, Josh. At least, no one with any
decency." He makes a few more keystrokes on the laptop. "I've taken your mom's
name off your insurance policy, and I'm going to do your will in a few minutes.
Who should I--?"

"You know what to do."

He waits, not looking at me. "All of it?"

"All of it."

A beat of silence. Sam adjusts his glasses, then takes a sip from his bottle.
"People will talk."

"People won't know. She won't know. Promise me, Sam, unless something happens to
me, she won't know."

"Because you don't want her to feel beholden to you."

"Hopefully with the same amount of success you had getting CJ not to feel
beholden to you after Rosslyn."

His eyes are enormous behind the lenses as he regards me in dismay. "CJ told
you."

"I heard. People told me all sorts of stories to keep me entertained."

"You were pretty stoned on pain meds. I'm surprised you remember."

"The image of CJ rubbing coconut oil all over you isn't something you forget
about easily." We share a rueful laugh and I take a swig of my beer. "Seriously,
Sam. She could be compromised if this got out. It's...I just want to make sure
she's taken care of."

"I understand."

"She's been through a lot - putting up with me in general, then the shooting,
and now the stuff with the MS--"

"You don't have to explain it to me, Josh," Sam says mildly, as he finishes one
document and clicks on another.

"I never do. Thank God." I sink down into the chair and put the beer bottle
against my face for a second.

He blushes a little, never able to take a compliment. "Anyway, I'll file all
this when we get back home." He types for another moment, changes a few things,
and now Donnatella Moss is an heiress.

"Thanks, Sam."

He closes the laptop. "Make sure you get a good CPA, because the tax stuff's
going to be a little weird for the first year or so."

"Yeah. I remember that from my dad." I finger the lump in my pocket, my heart
racing strangely in my chest. "And there's something else."

Sam's putting the computer in the case, only half-listening to me. "Hmm?"

"There's something else." I pull out my father's Rolex. I place it on the table,
by Sam's left arm. "When I went through Mom's stuff, I found this."

"That's...wow, that's gorgeous. You should get it appraised, just in case
something--"

"Sam. No." A surge of affection races through me, calming the irrational tattoo
of my heart. I push it closer to him, letting the gold touch his hand. "I want
you to have it."

The glasses slide down his nose. He takes them off, cleaning them with
exaggerated slowness, then puts one hand over his eyes.

It's too quiet in here. I start babbling. "If I were you - if I could write like
you, or even put three words together like you - I'd tell you why this should be
yours. But the only words I can find seem to be 'thank you,' and that doesn't
seem like enough..."

A tear slides between Sam's fingers. It plops down next to the watch, a reminder
of how tender Sam's heart is. "Josh. I don't know what to say."

"Well, wait until you put in a new battery and see if it runs before you decide
to make with the thanks."

He turns his head and smiles at me, his eyes a little red-rimmed. "I'm sure
it'll keep on going and going."

"Like us." I tip the chair back on two legs, swaying back and forth. "We
survived so much, Sam. And we'll get past this. We'll get back to governing, and
we'll run again, and we'll win."

"It won't be like last time."

He means that it won't have the idealism of the first run, and of course it
wouldn't have anyway, but now, with the scandal hanging over our heads, we seem
to be perched even closer to some metaphorical edge.

Last time, I had both my parents, at least up until the Illinois primary. Sam
had his family intact. I hadn't been shot. Donna hadn't perjured herself to keep
some slimeball from putting her diary into evidence.

We hadn't known the President had M.S.

With a few maneuvers Sam gets the watch on his wrist, admiring it even though
it's not doing anything but adorning him. His eyes are hazy and distant.
"Sometimes I wonder if we even should do this. I mean, what exactly have we
accomplished in our three years, Josh?"

"Not as much as we wanted. Maybe not as much as we could, if we'd tried harder.
But we're just now getting good at this and I want another shot at it so bad, I
can taste it." I examine Sam's face, the simmering behind his eyes, the
downturned pucker of his mouth. "I wish I could give that fire back to you."

"I am on fire," he says softly, turning away from me. He picks at something
hanging from the power cord of his laptop. "Only it's like a low-grade fever
more than anything else. I could get well if I could just identify the cause,
but instead it's just got me run down."

I have trouble holding on to the bottle because my hands start to shake. "That's
depression, my friend," I say, working to keep my voice even.

"I know," Sam sighs.

"Sam..."

"Josh." He puts his hand on my arm. My father's watch gleams against his bare
skin. "We don't have to talk about this tonight. But it's nice of you to worry.
It makes me worry less about you, because if you can worry about me, then you're
doing better."

I squint at him. "It's not like there's a zero-sum equation for unhappiness,
Sam. I can be unhappy, you can be unhappy, Donna can be unhappy--"

"Yeah, and what's that about, anyway?"

For a moment I consider telling him, just because it's the first thing he's
seemed really interested in tonight, but no way on earth would I ever do that to
Donna. "I honestly can't tell you, Sam. But it's not going to be a problem."

"Okay, then," he says slowly. "She knows she can talk to me, right?"

"I'm hoping that won't be necessary." Calley seems like a decent guy, for a
blood-sucking Republican schmuck. Donna won't need another lawyer.

In the time-honored tradition of old friends, we don't say another word, just
sit and look out the window at the evening sky. After a while we pick up our
beers and head for my patio so we can have one more look at the ocean.

I wonder if Leo and the President ever do this when they have crappy days, if
they just...sit, the way Sam and I do. There's something comforting about being
able to retrace the events of the day in silence, but not alone. Enjoying the
view.

Mom had a nice view. She was probably just coming in from watering the plants
when Esther arrived, and she probably had a pot of tea ready for her friend. Mom
was of the opinion that you could solve all the trauma in the world with a good
cup of tea. She sends...sent...tea to Donna all the time, along with little
notes Donna wouldn't let me read. "They're between us girls," Mom would say to
me when I complained about the secrecy.

Anyway.

Esther was probably treated to another retelling of my virtues - Mom always
saved my flaws for conversations with me - just as the Speaker called the
meeting to order. And I was there, on camera, hopefully not showing the sweat
that was trickling down my entire body, holding my head up and looking Bruno in
the eye when I told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

And that's what she would've seen in her last moments. Her son. The whole truth.

The way she raised me.

It's there again, the feeling of heat welling up behind my eyes, but this time I
can control it, will it back, slow the relentless pounding of my heart. Sam,
watching me out of the corner of his eye with all the subtlety of sixteen tons
of marbles going down a metal staircase, flinches, but he doesn't move, doesn't
speak, just lets me take hold of my grief and wrestle it down to something
manageable.

Thank you, God, for Sam.

And for Donna, and CJ and Toby and Leo and all the rest of them, who love me
even though I'm a monumental pain in the ass.

So, please take care of my mother. She'd probably like a cup of tea.

Amen.

***

When Donna joins us, we watch the late news over a cheese and fruit tray
Rosemary brings up to my room. There's a great video clip of the President
demanding Schuller's immediate apology for his insensitivity. My favorite line -
and I can tell it was scripted by Toby - is "My wife always says one thing about
autopsies: don't perform them on the living." That clip is followed by CJ's
triumphant press follow-up in which she states that "Congressman Schuller has
donated an undisclosed sum to a local women's shelter in memory of Dolores
Landingham and Marjorie Lyman."

"I'd pay real money to have sat in on the meeting between Toby and Schuller,"
Sam says.

There's a brief clip of Cliff Calley saying that Congressman Schuller was
speaking neither for the House Committee nor for the Republican Party. Calley
looks indignant and more than a little embarrassed. Donna watches, and I watch
Donna watching, and it tears me in half when I say, "He's not too bad for a
Republican." I leave out the blood-sucking and schmuck observations from earlier
today.

My admission earns me a smile from Donna and a confused glance from Sam, who
turns off the television and stretches until we hear little cracks from his
joints.

"I'm going back to my room to pack. See you in the morning."

"Good night, Sam. And thanks again for everything." We watch him amble back to
his room, then Donna turns back to me.

"I'm going to call Dave, make sure he can get us early enough. Night, Josh." She
gives me a quick hug and disappears before I have time to give her the necklace,
or even say good night. Exhausted, drained to the last reserves of my energy, I
undress, brush my teeth, and collapse into bed.

I don't really remember much after that, except for pulling the blankets up to
my chin to ward off a sudden chill. I awaken to the touch of something
feather-soft on my face, and opening my eyes just a little I see that it's
Donna's hair brushing against my cheek.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I wasn't sure if you were asleep."

"Sorta. I'm foggy." I allow my eyes to open fully, taking in the sight of Donna
kneeling at my bedside, leaning over me, tickling me with her spun-gold hair.
"What is it?"

"Josh." Her eyes are wide, the irises almost entirely covered by her pupils as
she watches me in the dim light from the bathroom. "I heard something so I came
in to check on you, and you were shivering and thrashing around.."

"Yeah. Probably. I was dreaming about..." I can't quite grasp a memory of it. "I
think there was a dog chasing me because it thought I'd turned into a car. Or
maybe a hubcap. And I can't seem to get warm for some reason."

"Mmm." She tucks the blankets around me more securely. She tips her head forward
and even in the low light I can see an odd flush on her cheeks. "Josh, I know
this day was terrible for you. Do you...do you need me to stay?"

I prop myself up on one elbow. "Donna, that's thoughtful. But I'm fine, really.
You and Sam are across the hall, and either one of you could be here in seconds
if something were to happen. Which it won't." I look down, then look up at her
again. "But it was sweet of you to ask, it really was. You really ought to get
some sleep, I don't want you to be run down tomorrow--"

'Josh, ssh." Her fingers go to my lips, then to the side of my face, where her
cool palm is cool against the sleepy warmth of my cheek. "That's not..."

There's a sudden tightness in my chest and throat, and a burning sensation
through my whole body.

"Josh, what I meant was...if you needed to be...you know...held...or something."
Her slim frame is shivering. "If you needed me to...stay."

The air around me feels supercharged as I suck in a shallow breath. "Donna," I
gasp, eyes widening, and her expression melts as she reaches for me, as she
misinterprets my breathless cry of her name, as she moves to offer me the
wordless comfort I'm suddenly craving more than oxygen, more than life itself.

I don't want to screw this up, can't afford to do anything to hurt her, and I
reach behind my neck to clasp her hands and bring them to my lips. My body, my
traitorous body, thrums with need as I try to dislodge the images of her wrapped
around the very ache in my soul.

"Donnatella," I whisper, hoping my voice isn't as unsteady as the synapses in my
brain. "I'm...moved. Flattered."

"But...you're saying no."

"Yes. I mean, no. I mean, I'm saying no," I explain, seeing something akin to my
own combination of disappointment and relief in the endless blue of her eyes.
"And it's not because I don't want to - I need to feel…alive. Connected. But I
won't take advantage of your compassion."

She nods, wise woman, biting down on her lower lip, her eyes lowered. Her
fingers are cold in my grasp and I warm them between my palms. "I didn't mean to
make you uncomfortable, Josh," she whispers. "I just...you know."

"Yeah." And I do. I know that if our positions were reversed then I'd be all but
begging to demonstrate my emotions through touch rather than words. If I'd known
about October fifth... "I'm just glad it was you and not, you know, Sam."

She seems to ponder that for a moment. "I see your point - although that would
surely provide some very interesting visuals..."

"See?" I release her hands. "You always make me laugh. Not a lot of people can
do that for me." I sit up and move toward the edge of the bed. Donna starts to
stand, but I shake my head. "Stay there a second."

My jeans are draped over a chair. I fish around in the left pocket and pull out
what I've saved for her. "These should be rubies," I say as I pour the necklace
into her hand. "I wish they were. I wish they were diamonds. But
they're...pearls."

Her hand starts to shake. She lowers her head, trembling. "Josh, they're your
mother's. You can't...they should...you..."

"Sssh." I sit down next to her on the bed, retrieving the strand and putting it
around her neck. It only takes a moment for me to fasten the clasp.

"You're good at that," Donna murmurs.

"Mom used to let me do this for her when she and Dad went out. But it feels
different, now." Her skin is warm and incredibly soft. "This is...nicer."

"Josh?"

I move my palms to the sides of her face, holding it lightly, watching the
glimmer of her eyes. "Do you have any idea...?"

"I may have a clue," she whispers. "Josh. You're right. We can't."

"I know." I lean forward, resting my forehead against hers, looking down at the
pearls glistening like tears around her throat. "I just want...whatever we can
have."

"Me, too." Her arms go around my waist and we just sit there, holding each
other. "I'm your friend, Josh. Just like Sam."

"Well, not just like Sam."

"He's prettier than I am."

"But you're softer."

"So you're saying he really is prettier than I am."

I chuckle and hold her closer. "Is there any way for me to escape from this
conversation, Donna?"

"Not as such, no."

"That's what I thought." I count to twenty as I let myself get comfortable with
her, comfortable enough to tell her what's been on my mind.

"I don't belong to anyone, anymore," I whisper. "I want to belong to someone. I
don't know who I am, when I'm like this."

"It's okay, Josh, it's okay."

"Everyone's gone now. There's no family. There's no one left who remembers the
stories, the smells, the tastes. No one knows what it was like to get into the
car and drive until my father found some obscure historical spot. No one knows
how to make Mom's eggplant parmesan. There are so many things left that only I
remember, and I can't tell if they're real or not anymore."

"They're real, Josh. Like the shoes. You told me about the shoes, and you should
write that down, and all the other stories, too."

There's more, I want to tell her. There's an inescapable fear clawing my belly,
that the three people I loved most in the world are all gone before their time,
and that I fear for the ones left behind. The ones who, against all common
sense, love me back.

But instead I lean against the headboard and pull Donna back with me so that her
head's resting on my shoulder. I bury my face in her hair, inhaling deeply.
"I'll tell you some more stories, then. You can take dictation."

"You can get stuffed." She hugs me, though, and I can feel her lips pulling up
into a smile. "Tell me your stories, Josh."

And I do, far into the night, and when Sam comes to wake me the next morning he
finds me propped up in bed with Donna curled up beside me, her head in my lap.
She's out cold but I never really slept, just dozed fitfully now and then,
wakened by sadness lapping at me like water at the edge of the beach.

"Don't wake her," I whisper. Sam nods and pulls the chair close to the bed. He
strokes Donna's hair for a moment and she makes a little purring noise

Sam takes the envelope with my mother's ethical will out of his jacket pocket.
He puts it on the bed, not into my hand, and looks up at me with questioning
eyes. I take the envelope, open it, and begin to read.

"My dearest Josh,

"There are three things I want to give you - not to make you a better person,
because I love you just as you are, but to give you a better life.

"First - love of knowledge. Yes, you have your degrees, but there is so much in
life you don't know about. Art, and music, and literature, and dancing - these
are so important to your spiritual life. Take time once in a while to do
something outside of politics, and do it with friends.

"Second - love of righteousness. You fight so hard, my soldier, but sometimes
you prefer the battle to the cause. Use that brain, that passion, that wit, not
only to prove that you're right but also to prove why you're right. Make the
world see you as a leader from the heart, not just from the brain.

"Third - love of life. Don't let what happened to Joanie and your father make
you afraid to live your life to the fullest. That includes your friends - Sam
and Donna, Toby and CJ, our old friend Leo, who loves you more than he can show,
and the man you have the honor of calling "friend," Josiah Bartlet. You've been
granted a second chance at life, a second chance at friendship. Don't be afraid
to let them into your heart - your heart's as big as your mind, or even your
mouth, and there's room, son. There's room for them all.

"Remember that I loved you from the moment you came into my life, and that my
love will last forever and ever. Be well, my darling son, and above all, be
happy."

"Mom," I whisper as I lean my head back to stall the new tears. Sam says nothing
but he takes the letter, careful of the precious paper, and puts it back in the
envelope. He sets it on top of my suitcase, keeping his back turned so that I
can have a moment to regain my composure.

She knew me so well, for all that we didn't see enough of each other for the
last few years. My heart's as big as my mouth, Mom? Funny. But as I watch Sam
busying himself and look down to see Donna guarding me even in her sleep, I know
that she was right.

Donna stirs fitfully then wakens with a start. Sam's in her line of vision, and
she looks confused for a moment before she has a chance to remember where she
is. She sits up, looking chagrined as Sam smiles at her. "I need to get
dressed," she mumbles.

"You really don't. You're charming just as you are."

Donna ruffles his hair as she gets up and goes to her room. I rise as well,
heading for the bathroom, and turn on the shower. I can move better today than
yesterday, I can think more clearly. I hurt, but it's something I can work
around, something that doesn't have to leave me breathless and wild-eyed in the
middle of the day.

Sam's sitting on the balcony, calmly eating my breakfast, when I emerge.
"Anything I can do for you before we get ready to leave?" he asks.

"Such as ensure that I keep my boyish figure?" I snatch the coffeepot from him
and pour myself a cup. He passes the French toast to me with an apologetic grin.

"It's the ocean air. Makes me hungry."

"Yeah." I look out at the beach, at the water and the birds. "You got another
one of those notebook things?"

"'Notebook things,' Josh?"

"Hey, I'm not a speechwriter."

"Thank God." Sam produces a small spiral notebook from his pocket, then hands me
a pen to go along with it. "What're you writing?"

"I'm not sure yet. But...something." I finish my toast, throw down my napkin,
and get up, Sam following close behind. We stand out in the hallway. "Donna!
Hurry up!"

"What?" she asks as she opens the door. She's dressed, but her hair is still wet
and she's rubbing it with a towel.

"Let's go for a walk on the beach."

"You hate the beach, Josh."

"I do not."

"You hate being outside."

"Take a walk with us, Donna. C'mon." I tilt my head and give her my most winning
expression. At least I think it's my most winning expression - it's hard to tell
when they're both laughing at me.

"Dave's coming at nine. We only have a few minutes."

"I don't care." The three of us troop downstairs, Sam lagging behind to instruct
someone what to do with our bags, and we cross the street to stand on the
seawall. There's a stairwell leading to the beach. Donna goes first, looking
back at us and waving for Sam and me to catch up, and we end up wandering around
by ourselves on this blustery, slightly chilly morning.

I park myself on a group of rocks - it's only slightly less comfortable than the
chair in my office - and take out the notebook. Sam's holding Donna by the arm,
explaining something about tides and the moon, and as I listen to the rise and
fall of his voice I know exactly what I'm going to write. It won't be as lovely
as something Sam wrote, or as stirring as something of Toby's, but it'll be my
memories. My hopes and wishes for them. For all of us.

Dave pulls up at the curb, honking, waving his cap out the window. Donna rushes
upstairs to get him to hang on while Sam comes up to me. His hands are in his
pockets and the wind's making a mess of his hair.

"You done?"

"Not quite." And I won't be, not for a while. Nonetheless, I let him help me up
and lead me to the car. As we head for the airport my cell phone goes off. "Josh
Lyman."

"Hey, Joshua, it's CJ. How're you feeling?"

"Better." I can say it truthfully. "How'd your thing with the committee go?"

"They postponed because of Schuller and his idiocy. Where are you guys?"

"On our way to the airport. We get in around three and we need a ride."

"If I can't get away, I'll have Carol do it. Seriously, though, are you ready?"

I'm ready, I think, as I take a deep breath. I'm ready. It's not where I thought
it was, once upon a time, in Connecticut, or in my mother's apartment, but right
here by my side, and in the White House. Wherever my friends are.

"Leave the light on for me. I'm coming home."

***
END
***

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