***

"You are a jackass."

CJ gets up, makes a move for the door. I gesture sharply at her. She sits back down.

You stay right there. In your seat. Stay there until you understand the difference between "talking with Toby" and telling him to come back by way of a press conference.

"I know you don't want to leave just yet, but –"

"You are a jackass."

CJ sucks in her lips like she's making a face, looks around. Door, ceiling, window, carpet, desk. Door, ceiling, window, carpet, desk. Door, ceiling, window…

Yeah. Keep looking around. You're in a lot of trouble.

"We need you back here."

"I don't care."

I really don't have the time for this. "Listen to me, and listen to me very carefully: this isn't a matter that's up for debate. You're coming back. Tomorrow."

There's a change in tone, a loud breath. "I can do my work from here. We've got a fax machine, a computer, and plenty of phones. I can do whatever you want me to do from here…"

We've already been through this.

"…and you're not ordering Josh to come back. Why are you ordering me to come back, but not him?"

"Josh doesn't write speeches and comments and words that have to come out of the President's mouth. You do. And we need you here. No arguments. You're coming back. Now."

Something slams in the background. "Nobody asked you to leave when it was Josh in the hospital!"

CJ's eyes close.

I knew we'd get to that.

"This is different, Toby."

"Damned straight it's different! This is my deputy who's in the hospital. This is my deputy who can barely keep his eyes open for more than a minute. This is my deputy who when he talks can't even make a full sentence, much less form anything resembling a logical thought. This is my deputy who can't even remember why he was here in the first place. This is *my* deputy who needs me here, and this is you, a jackass, who's ordering me around as if I care about my job!"

Quiet voice. Firm voice. Listen to me, Toby. "If you're not here, then the President can't talk. He can't speak. We need you here, he needs you here, this is your job."

There's silence. Silence for a long time. I think CJ might have fallen asleep.

"You said you booked me on which flight?" His voice is dull.

"Two hours from now."

Scratching sound over the line. "Fine."

"There'll be someone waiting to pick you up."

"Fine."

CJ opens her eyes, leans forward. I guess she wasn't asleep after all. "If anyone approaches you, don't say anything. Go straight to the car. Someone can pick up your luggage later."

"Fine."

"I'll see you later tonight."

"Fine."

Dialtone.

She sighs. "That went well."

"Y'think?"

She rubs a hand over her face, presses her lips together to stifle a yawn. "Exceedingly well."

"He'll be fine."

She lets out a lackluster chuckle. "I think I got that." She sighs. "It's not going to be too pleasant around here for the next couple of months."

"Toby will become bearable again…at some point. And Sam will get better."

She shrugs, looks skeptical. Sad and skeptical. "Josh told me that every time he wakes up, he asks where he is. Every single time. He can't remember."

"It's normal, it's –"

"Expected, I know. But it's rotten."

Rotten. Yes. Rotten day, rotten week. "Yeah."

I think I'll just save the scolding for another day.

***

***

He slept for about an hour, but he's waking up now. He blinks, looks around. He's confused.

"…where are we?…"

Almost two months since it happened, and his voice is still painful to hear. Still raspy and strained. I smile at him, tap the cast on his arm. "On a plane. We're going back home, Sam."

I wonder if that's how my voice sounded.

His father gives me an annoyed glance before looking down. He takes Sam's hand in both of his own. "We're going to Washington."

His mother gives his father an annoyed glance before looking down. She puts her hand over Sam's forehead and strokes his hair back. "D.C."

He stares at us all for a beat, gives a lopsided grin. "…I know that…I mean…where are we now?…"

Oh. It's just that those first couple of weeks, he was so… But he's really much better now. "We're, uh, over one of those states that are between Michigan and Washington."

Much better than he had been.

His father gives me an annoyed glance, then looks down. "Ohio."

His mother gives his father an annoyed glance, then looks down. "Pennsylvania."

He breathes. There's a line of sweat just above his mouth. Breathing still hurts. His eyes move from his mother to his father and back again. "…okay…"

The plane is small.

"How are we doing here?"

I look up. The medic is wearing too much eyeliner, and her nametag is crooked. Melanie.

"Hi, Sam. I'm going to check your blood pressure, okay?"

She doesn't wait for his response, merely adjusts the cuff and begins taking the reading.

He's staring at the ceiling, looking uncomfortable. I don't know if it's because the cuff is tight, or because his leg hurts, or because his chest hurts, or because his parents aren't talking with each other so much as at each other, or because I'm here to see that, or…

It's probably just because the cuff is tight.

I remember, for me, when I was in the hospital, the cuff was always too tight. I hated that.

"Mm-hm."

I watch her. "What?"

His father gives me an annoyed glance before looking at her. "What?"

His mother gives his father an annoyed glance before looking at her. "What's wrong?"

She smiles. "Just a bit high." She looks down, pats his shoulder to get his attention. "Are you feeling any pain, Sam?"

He shakes his head a little, then gives her a smile. It's a little wobbly. "…no…"

She raises an eyebrow at him, playfully. "Are you lying to me?"

His smile fades just a bit, but I can tell he's trying to hold it. He takes a shallow breath, and the smile is gone. "…sorry…"

I want to scold him for lying about that, about the pain, but I can't. I did it too. When I was in the hospital, I did that too; I hated how the pain medication made me so tired, so fuzzy. And I lied, so that I could stay awake, stay alert.

So I'm hardly one to talk.

She grins, nods. "Oh, and you almost had me going there." Her voice is too loud; she's lying. Nurses used to do that to me too, when I was in the hospital. "Is it your leg? Or your chest?"

His face is pale. He swallows, and I can see another line of sweat now, near the back of his neck. He shouldn't lie about it. I wish he wouldn't lie about it.

"Sam? Your leg or your chest?"

"…yeah…"

He takes another breath. I can see the outline of his body under the blankets. He's lost a lot of weight.

The medic – Melanie – laughs, but her eyes stay open, focused on his face. Her laugh is too loud; it's not real. "Okay, fair enough. I'll take care of that right away…"

She prattles on and on. I watch his parents. They watch her pull out a syringe and a small bottle from her duffel bag. She pokes the syringe into the bottle, tilts it back, fills it, takes it out. She takes hold of the IV line in his good arm – the one without the cast – and injects it. The syringe is stowed in a baggie, and she packs it away.

Her voice is softer now. She's speaking more slowly. "That's going to kick in pretty fast, so you just keep still. We'll be down on the ground before you know it."

He blinks, tries to smile again. Doesn't work. "…'kay…"

"Close your eyes, honey." His mother strokes back his hair.

My mom did that for me when I was in the hospital. And Donna.

"Do what your mom says." His father is holding his hand.

Leo did that for me when I was in the hospital. And Sam.

"…nice day…for a trip…"

I look out the window. It's clear outside, very bright.

The doctors said he'll be able to walk again, that he'll probably regain most function in his leg. But only most. He'll probably always have a limp, they said. He'll probably always have that.

The sun is on the other side of the plane.

Sam likes to sail competitively. It'll be hard to do that if he limps. No one will want him on a yachting team.

I don't do anything competitively. Well, not like that. Nothing physical. Not that I couldn't. I just don't enjoy it. Sam enjoys it.

"…Josh?…"

He won't be able to do that anymore.

I turn back to him. "Yeah?"

Wouldn't matter if I had a limp.

"…anything new at work?…"

I lean forward, put my elbows on my knees and my head on top of my hands. I nod awkwardly. "Yeah. You want news or gossip?"

I don't understand how this could have happened. At least, when I got shot, there was some purpose. My injury was purposeful; someone purposefully meant to kill people the night I got shot.

His father gives me an annoyed glance before looking down again. "You should sleep, Sam."

His mother gives his father an annoyed glance before looking down again. "Try closing your eyes, baby."

He's their only child. Beloved, cherished, and unique.

I know what that's like. Ever since Joanie died, I've known.

He smiles at them – still wobbly – then half-heartedly arches an eyebrow at me. "…gossip…"

I pretend to think about that for a moment, pretend to sort among the myriad items of gossip to which I'm privy. I'm actually not privy to all that much. "Well, Donna is dating a complete loser."

"…as usual…" The drugs are beginning to take hold; his eyes are unfocused already. He looks at his mother. "…Josh always thinks…Donna is dating…losers…"

She smiles at him, strokes his hair some more. "Oh, yeah?"

He's really much better, much better than he had been.

I give him a fake glare. "He's a lobbyist for the tobacco industry."

Sam, on the other hand, was in an accident. On a trip, no big deal, and he had an accident. No purpose to it at all, just an accident. A fluke. Except that I helped decide to send him on that trip, no big deal, and he had an accident.

He sighs, nods. His eyes are almost closed.

His father gives me an annoyed glance before looking down.

"Go to sleep, Sam." His father's voice is soft. "We'll be there soon."

I notice that his father is careful to say 'there,' not 'home.'

I don't like Sam's father very much. He's been good to Sam, very good. Very good and very careful.

When Sam and Lisa broke up, Sam's home became a succession of hotel rooms with maps of the United States and polling charts tacked onto the walls or strewn on the floor. And Bartlet's campaign.

When his father revealed his twenty-eight year affair, Sam's home became the couch in Toby's office. And eighteen, almost nineteen applications for presidential pardon.

When his father and mother divorced, Sam's home became his office, or my office, or Toby's office, or a conference room down the hall, or the Mess. And cleaning up the mess at the General Accounting Office.

Why'd you come and get me in '97?

His voice was stronger then, almost two months ago, weighted with anger.

You're a fantastic writer…and a good man…you've got the right ideas…

I don't why I got him. I just knew. I knew he'd be the right man to work for Bartlet, to work for the campaign, the right man for the job. I just knew.

Sam's home is his work, and his work is at the White House, in the West Wing.

His mother is gazing at him. "Sshh, honey. Sleep." His eyes are closed now.

They raised him, they can love him, but we need him at work, because that's where his home is now. We need him to work, and work is his home, and that's just all there is to it.

***

***

"Hello, Mr. Ziegler." The guard pushes a clipboard across the desk, towards me. "How was the drive?"

I shake the water off my coat. Summer showers. "Fine. No problem."

"Good. Just sign in, please."

I scrawl my name on the paper, push the clipboard back to him.

He points to the large bag in my hand. "That smells good."

"Brought some dinner. Burgers."

"Good. He needs some more weight on him. It'll help get him back on his feet. A little more weight, that's what he needs."

Can't argue with that. "Yeah. He's getting better, though. You know if he's in his room?"

"I think he's in the gym right now. Saw them wheel him over there about an hour-and-a-half ago."

"Thanks."

It's quiet here. Friendly people, excellent doctors and therapists, wide halls, big windows, very clean, only a forty-five minute drive. Less when it's not rush hour.

Down the hall. Right turn.

Another right.

The doors are open, and I can hear voices.

"Good job, Sam."

I slow my pace. The gymnasium is large and airy. Mats cover the floor. Equipment is arranged in a logical maze, directing patients from one exercise to the next.

"Don't hunch over."

His parents thought he should go back with them, go back to California. I spoke to Abbey about that. Her recommendation was that he come here.

"…c'mon…move…"

I knew his parents would listen to Dr. Bartlet.

"…forward…step…"

I should probably feel guilty for asking her to make a recommendation, like that, to his parents.

"…other leg…"

But I don't.

"…three more steps…"

Oh, well.

I walk through the door. Far side of the room, at the bars. I'll stay here. I don't want to bother them.

His physical therapist, Connie, is on the ground. She's on her knees, and she is holding his right leg. She brings it forward, towards her body.

He's probably already been through an hour or so of weights and flexibility exercises. Connie always has him do the bars last.

Connie Lynn Bower. University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Bachelor of Science degree in bio-physiology. GPA: 3.75. Indiana University at Bloomington. Master's degree in physical therapy. GPA: 3.9. Connie consistently achieves at a high level…she is a leader in her class…proud to recommend her for the position…excellent rapport with patients…a credit to this institution…

"I don't care. I think I'm done now."

"You're not done, and you'll care when we leave you to fall on your ass."

I lean against the wall and watch in silence. Connie's good.

There's another woman, behind him. I don't know her. Her arms encircle Sam's waist, helping to keep him upright.

"I don't like you."

They're both very pretty women. Sam's lucky day.

"I voted Republican, so…"

Or not.

"You voted Republican?"

That was not in her file.

"Yes, and if you don't move your left leg, I'm going to vote Libertarian."

That was definitely not in her file.

"…what?…"

I stand up straight. His voice is… It's trembling. His voice hasn't sounded like that in weeks.

"Hey, hey…careful there…careful…'

He looks pale.

I step forward.

He's holding onto the bars with his hands. I can see his elbows shaking.

"…you okay?…"

He doesn't seem okay. I don't think he's okay. Maybe he should sit down. Tell him to sit down.

"You're a little pale. Are you dizzy?"

He shakes his head.

"Are you lying to me, Samuel?"

He does that every now and then. More and more, I've noticed. And Josh told me he did that on the plane, about the pain. I don't like it when he does that, when he lies.

He shakes his head again. I can't tell if he's lying again now.

"…I'm fine…lost my concentration…"

His voice isn't quite steady. But the tremble is far-away now, pushed to the back of his throat.

"Okay. Well, try not to lose it again –"

"It's never lost, so much as misplaced."

"Excuse me?"

Hah. That's funny.

"I said that, uh, it's never…my concentration, I mean…it's never lost. So much as misplaced."

That sounds familiar. Where have I heard that before?

"…odd man, Sam…"

He must have said it to me sometime, some time ago.

"You ready to keep going?"

"Yeah."

I lean back again. A few more minutes, and he'll be done for the day.

"Good job, Sam. Keep doing what you're doing."

Light day tomorrow. It's Saturday. Clear off the desk, make a few calls, yell at a few people –

"…don't know what I'm doing..."

"Yes, you do. C'mon, you're doing great."

It's late. They should let him go for the day. Maybe if they see me, they'll let him go a few minutes early.

"Forward. Bend. Wow, good. And down. One more step, Sam, and you're done."

The bag is on the floor beside my feet. I pick it up.

"I can hear it every time that damned bell goes off, and it just about drives me crazy."

The mats are cushioned. It's silent in here except for the sound of their voices.

"Good job, Sam."

"Keep breathing, Sam."

The quiet is good. I think it's good for him, while he gets better.

Only a few more inches on the bars. One more step. I don't think it will make a difference now if I interrupt. "Hey, Sam."

His head jerks up. He looks at me, surprised.

That's strange. I told him I was coming tonight. "I brought some dinner. You almost done?"

He's still looking up at me. His eyes are wide. But I told him I was coming. "Sam?"

"Almost there, Sam. Almost done. Sam?"

Why is he looking at me like that? Doesn't he remember? I told him I was –

Sam!

"Whoa!"

Get his arm!

"Hey!"

Oh my god, oh my god…what's wrong with him?

"Sam!"

What's wrong with him? Help him!

"...careful! I got him, I got him…"

Shit, why is he so pale?

"Sam!"

"...okay, careful…"

Careful, hold onto his arm, careful of the bars…

"…let's just sit down…right here on the mat…gently…"

Careful, careful, don't hurt him.

"…gently…"

"Sam?"

He fell.

***