"I mean it, and I've lived in Boston and Chicago," he says. "It's ungodly."

I don't notice the cold myself. I'm too preoccupied, too excited, jumping up and down, rubbing my hands together. This is it. This is it. "This is it," I say. "I'm going to get Sam."

He raises one eyebrow as he tugs his collar up. "Sam?"

"Seaborn," I explain.

"Kid you worked the floor with in Congress?"

I'm surprised he remembers. "That's the guy."

"Kind of young, isn't he?"

"Not as young as he was ten years ago." This is unsettling. Doesn't he trust me? I have to get Sam. We need Sam, and I promised. "Leo--"

"I'm all for it," he says quickly. "I fired everyone but Toby tonight, so we need all the hands and heads we can get. But we can't afford to do that over again. So if you're bringing him in, he needs to be ready."

"I'll vouch for him," I say.

Why do I say that? Why don't I just say that I know Sam can do this? Why don't I promise that Sam will prove himself? No, I vouch for him. I say I'll be responsible if he screws up. I sound like his father.

Leo seems satisfied. He nods and walks back into the VFW Hall and leaves me to try and remember where I parked my car. I pass it on the street twice. It doesn't matter. I'll get to know New Hampshire. I'm coming back, as soon as I get this done.

Lisa hisses at me when Sam and I stop by the apartment. She throws clothes. We catch them, well, mostly we catch them, because the Dragon Lady's really got an arm on her. We stuff them in one suitcase, Louis Vuitton, and one garbage bag, Hefty, and haul them down to the back of my car. It's raining. I normally hate driving in cities, especially in the rain. But today I'm gunning it, passing people, making illegal turns. It doesn't matter.

Sam is a crier. His eyes blur and before he knows it he's making little sniffly sad noises and his face is wet. He doesn't sob; he kind of leaks at the eyes. He cries in the car on the way to Nashua. I guess it's because of Lisa, and because Sam just does this. Doesn't mean things are particularly awful. Maybe it's even a good sign. But there's a period on the New England Thruway where I start to wonder if he's going to be ready to do this. And he is, of course he is. But I have five minutes of doubt. I feel guilty for the rest of the trip, and because of that we stop at a Carvel somewhere off the highway and I pay for his ice cream.

"Leo McGarry," Sam says as we walk across the parking lot. He says it the way some grade school kids say 'Joe DiMaggio.'

"Sam," I say, "I've known him all my life. You've met him what, five, ten times?"

"Yeah, but this is different. This is taking it up a notch." He makes a weird horizontal slicing gesture with the hand that isn't holding his ice cream cone. I guess that's what taking it up a notch looks like. "We're going to go work for Leo McGarry."

"Forget about Leo for three seconds, would you? I mean, he's great. He's--" How do you describe Leo? How do you pin down someone who put an arm around your father's shoulders at your sister's funeral? Or how I was five years old and I'd come downstairs early in the morning to watch cartoons, and he'd be sleeping -- passed out, I realized later -- on the couch. He's a master politician. He's the toughest guy on the planet. How do you describe Leo? You don't.

"We need to talk about Jed Bartlet," I say.

Sam nods seriously. "I like his record."

"How do you know his record? He's a Governor from New Hampshire."

"And a former Congressman," he says, ducking into the passenger side of my car.

"Ah." I wipe some rain off my face and get in the driver's side. "You're such a dork."

He gets a little bit defensive. "It's not as if I know every vote anyone ever took on any resolution. I just keep track, that's all. And I like his economic policy."

"So does the Nobel Prize committee," I tell him, starting the engine.

Sam's eyes get big as we pull out, back toward the road. "This is incredible."

"Yeah!" I slap the dashboard and turn the windshield wipers on. "We're on our way."

"Mmmph," he says around a mouthful of vanilla soft-serve.

"What?"

"Thank you," he says. I don't know how to reply, so I don't reply at all.

How it started: Georgetown in late spring. A bar. A fight. I was twenty-seven, and I was two sheets to the wind, and I noticed him first because he got carded the second he walked in.

"Might be fake," the bartender was saying to the owner, over the phone. "It's an out-of-state license."

"I'm from California," the kid squeaked, pushing his hair out of his eyes.

The bartender scoffed at him and kept talking into the phone. "Twenty-one? He looks about twelve."

"Look, you want my birth certificate?"

The bartender shrugged. "Hey, if you're screwing with me, I lose my license, you get arrested, and then we're all fucked."

I don't know why I did it. I mean, I'd had a beer or two. But I don't keel right over the way I let people think I do, and even if I did, I was fine then.

"It's cool," I said. "I know him." And my three friends looked at me like I'd said I knew Einstein or Madonna or one of the kids from Eight is Enough.

The bartender shot me a suspicious look. "Really."

"Yeah."

His eyes lit up. "That's Josh," he said, pointing at me.

How the hell does he know my name? I thought. But I'm quick on my feet. "Come sit down, dude. Terry, he's cool. Bring us a round of Heinekens."

The bartender frowned at me, but he turned around and the kid with the hair came and sat down at our table. "Hey," I said, and waved around the table. "This is Chris Wick, these are Shelly and Colin Raunig."

He held out a hand and waited for someone to shake it. "Sam. Sam Seaborn. Sam."

Chris slapped his palm. "You know Josh?"

"Yeah, you know Josh?" I echoed.

His face turned pink -- purple, under the bar's lighting. "Just from around. You work for Earl Brennan."

"Aye," I said. I must have been feeling the beer already. "And you?"

"I'm on Dinah Hewitt's staff," Sam told us.

"I hate Dinah Hewitt," I said. Or maybe I said something less polite. But what I meant was, "Dinah Hewitt is an uncooperative representative who votes Republican on far too many budget issues for my taste."

"She votes her conscience," Sam said.

I snorted. "What're you? An intern?"

"Used to be. Now I'm an associate counsel," he announced proudly.

Shelly stared at him. "You're a lawyer?"

"Passed the bar and everything."

"Harvard?" I asked hopefully. Chris nodded encouragement.

"Duke."

It figured. "Are you one of those child prodigies they always have on '60 Minutes'?" I asked.

He thrust his jaw forward. "I'm twenty-four years old. It's not my fault I look how I look."

And then our beers came, and we were all drinking and talking, and Shelly and Colin were being disgustingly lovey-dovey, and Chris was expounding on his theory that, dude, low income housing was, like, totally going to save the country. I was in a bad mood, and really smashed by then. And Sam started this conversation.

"Disenfranchised Americans," Sam was saying.

I don't know why I picked a fight. "How the fuck would you know?"

He blinked mildly. "Huh?"

"Look at you." I thumped the table to back up my point. "You're like, you're like, like you just stepped out of 'Fast Times At Ridgemont High.'"

"Hey, just because I'm from California--"

"'S not because you're from California. It's 'cause, look. You're..." I reached out and flicked my index finger at a piece of his hair. "White kid, from the suburbs. Rich suburbs, probably."

"Josh." Colin laughed in the background. "You're a rich white guy from the suburbs."

"Jewish rich white guy." I jumped to my feet. I think I was yelling. "I got history. I got six thousand years. Not to mention which, I know I'm lucky. I'm owning it. And you--" I jabbed a finger at Sam, kind of into his face, accidentally touching his nose. "You don't even know. You don't even know."

He stood up too. "I'm not arguing with you," he said, in his serious-soft-stubborn voice, although I didn't know it was that voice then.

I wavered some on my feet. "The hell you aren't. You work for a fatass, and you're probably a pussy. You're a lawyer, for crying out loud."

"You're a lawyer," Colin said, drunk but rational behind me.

"Screw you." I teetered forward. Sam put out his hands instinctively and caught my shoulder. I pushed him away, hard, and he stumbled back and hit a chair and toppled over into a heap on the sticky floor.

He looked up at me, eyes accusing. And then he did this freakish, insane thing. He jumped.

He jumped! The little fucker jumped on me!

I staggered backwards and we both hit the floor. And then we were rolling, mostly just shoving at each other, getting a few good punches in here and there. I thwacked my head pretty good on the table leg, and Terry came around the bar and nudged us apart with his pretty impressive combat boots.

"Hope you got that out of your system," he said, pushing us toward the door. "Wait out there, I'll call a cab. Leave and it's no skin off my back, you can find your own damn way home."

I was panting like a dog, but when I got my breath back I started to laugh. "Kid's all right," I shouted to the sky. I grabbed Sam's hand and shook it, hard. He stared at me, bewildered but starting to grin. "Kid's all right."

"Of course, we have to recognize what Rush Limbaugh's success says about popular media," Sam is saying, as he fiddles with my radio.

I realize I haven't been listening to him for several miles. "Of course."

"Tell me about Bartlet's speech."

I'm beginning to realize I haven't been paying attention to exit signs either. "I already told you."

"Tell me again."

I take a deep breath. "He was boring the hell out of some young grandmother."

"Young grandmother?"

"Young for a grandmother. He's really fucking smart, Sam. He was talking to her and he had numbers, formulas, he was pulling them out of his head. And she was listening. She didn't have any idea what he was going on about, and half the room was passing out, but she, that woman, the young grandmother, she was listening."

"And then?" he says, mouth crinkling at the corners. He's like a little kid who knows his bedtime story by heart, but wants to hear it over and over.

"Then this guy stood up and asked him about lowering the price of milk." I can't help smiling myself at the thought of it. "And he said, loud and clear, 'I screwed you on that one.'"

"'I screwed you on that one'," Sam repeats wonderingly.

"And he went on to explain that he made the decision with the greater good in mind, and if it cost their votes so be it, because he believed in it. And the hell of it was..." I take my hands off the wheel for a few seconds, run them over my face. "He did believe in it. I mean, I've heard Hoynes and Brennan and God knows who else make that kind of speech, but this guy means it. He's it."

Sam leans his seat back. "What exit were we going to?"

"Uh, forty-seven, I think."

"We're on like fifty-six."

"No shit."

"We could've just stayed on 95 North," Sam points out helpfully, and I want to smack him upside the head. I watch the road for a little while, and when I glance back at him again, he's looking troubled.

"You okay?" I ask.

"Sure," he lies, staring out the window. "Lisa was pretty pissed off at me."

"She'll get over it."

"No, she probably won't. Not any time soon. You know how she is."

"I know how she is," I agree. I don't like her. I've never thought she was good for Sam, not from when he first introduced us at a party in Manhattan. She's manipulative and selfish and cold; she treats Sam like a puppy and he can't see it. Because he can't see it, he's been crazy in love with her for four years. And because he is, I can't say it, because it would end up in a tug-of-war and ultimately the woman is going to win.

"Damn. I really -- she's -- she doesn't want me to do this." He sits up straight. "And here I am."

"It's a big thing," I say cautiously

"You think she'll break off the engagement?" The funny thing is, he's not scared, or tearful. He's curious.

"Maybe." I pull to the right lane for the next exit. "I don't know, man."

He breathes shakily. "Could we stop for a bathroom?"

"Sure, and coffee."

"And maybe some, I don't know, chips or something."

I elbow his upper arm. "You're not worried about wrecking your gorgeous complexion?"

"Don't hate me," he quips, elbowing back. "Watch the road."

We turn onto the off-ramp. "Maybe I should also call and ask directions," I add.

"Men don't do that," Sam says.

"That's why I'm delegating the task to you."

There's nothing like having someone almost knock you senseless to make him your friend. It's different with women, I guess. You always see women crying together over some jerk's behavior or some crisis. Guys just have to bust each other in the head a few times and it's a bond for life.

I have this thing I do where I make fun of Sam by calling him a woman. And I'm not a complete idiot, so I know on one level it's both hurtful and misogynist. I don't do it with malice, though. I don't do it to piss him off. It's just fooling around. I do it because -- I don't know why I do it. I'm an asshole.

The first time that things Got Weird was about a year after we met. We were splitting the rent then on a tiny two-bedroom in Dupont Circle. It was summer and the A/C was broken. We were watching a ball game. I was pretending for some reason that Sam knew nothing about baseball, calling pitches and pointing out important players. It was probably annoying the hell out of him, but he had a cold beer and he didn't seem to care much.

He looked at me strangely. And then...

I had never done that before. And it was pretty obvious that he had. I hate not having the strategic advantage. So it was just this uncomfortable, failed thing between innings. We didn't talk about it. I didn't really think much about it, which is, I admit, unusual for me. And if Sam was sitting around analyzing or hoping or anything, he didn't share it.

The second time things Got Weird was last year. I came home very drunk one night and there was Sam. He was crying. At the time, I couldn't figure out why, even though he was trying and trying to tell me. I don't remember much. When I woke up the next morning he'd left behind a dirty T-shirt and a note with a phone number in California. It was about his mother.

I'm not a misogynist, and I'm not a homophobe. I just think it's most likely that there are certain ways you're born, and this isn't how I was born. It's just Sam, it's just this rich white California kid who knew me before I knew him. And it was just twice. And I don't like to dwell on it. So I should probably stop.

We pull up at a Sunoco station. The price of gas seems ridiculous, but I know it's down from last summer, and it'll go up again in another six months. I top off the tank while Sam braves the restroom, and we meet up in the convenience store.

"Doritos," I suggest. "The ranch kind?"

"Ew," he says. "You're going to stink up the car."

"Oh? And what were you planning on?"

"Smartfood popcorn." He holds up two little foil bags. "White cheddar."

"Vetoed," I tell him flatly.

"Why?"

"Girly. Anything called 'Smartfood' is for vegetarians." I study the bag. "Or lab experiments."

"You like ranch Doritos," he says, wrinkling his nose. "You have no taste. And it's only 99 cents."

"Okay. Smartfood for you." I grab another package off the shelf. "Ruffles for me."

"Yeah, because a food called 'Ruffles' isn't effeminate in any way," he says.

"Shut up." I take his popcorn and my chips and head toward the coffee machine. "Got your cell phone?"

He produces it from the inside of his coat. "Here. What for?"

"Mine's in the car, and it'll cost about eight hundred dollars to call Nashua from the pay phone."

"You want to use mine?"

"I'm pouring here," I say, holding up the paper cup. "Like I said before, I want you to call."

I swear he freezes right there in front of the snack cakes. "I can't call."

"Why not?"

"They don't know me. They've never met me."

"Leo's met you."

"He's Leo McGarry!"

"He doesn't have special powers," I say. Then I think about that a little. "Okay, he doesn't have any special powers he can exercise over the phone."

"Aren't you from Connecticut?" Sam asks, sounding both suspicious and desperate.

"I've only driven this route once before. So sue me. Would you just call them already?" He slouches a bit, resigned. I finish pouring my coffee, give him the number, and stand behind him so I can hear. "No one's going to bite your head off."

I expect Margaret to pick up the phone, or some random Birkenstock-wearing student volunteer.

"Ziegler," a voice barks. Okay, I hadn't expected that.

"Hello?" Sam says, doing his best not to stammer.

"Hello?" Toby replies mockingly. "Who is this?"

"This is Sam," he blurts. "Sam Seaborn."

"Well. It's very nice to hear from you, Sam Seaborn." Toby's tone makes it clear that it's really not.

"He's with me," I say, loud enough for the phone to pick it up.

"Thanks for clarifying that." Toby fades away as if he's about to hang up.

"That was Josh," Sam explains hastily.

"Oh." If it was possible for Toby to sound less thrilled, he does it. "Where the hell are you?"

"With me," Sam tells him.

"With you, Sam Seaborn."

"Yes."

"Where the hell are you?"

"Gas station," I put in helpfully. "Somewhere near, um, Lowell. Or something."

Sam glances back at me. "I thought it was Putnam."

"Oh, we're nowhere near Putnam."

"Okay, Abbott? Costello?" Toby sighs heavily. "You're lost in the dense wilderness of Connecticut."

"Right," Sam and I both say.

"Aren't you from Connecticut?" he asks me.

"Not this part!"

"Any reason I shouldn't root for you to stay lost?"

"You've got to meet Sam!" I take the phone and pace a few steps away. "I can't wait to get the two of you in the same room. It's gonna be like the Sistine Chapel ceiling. With the fingers, and the spark, you know?"

"That is the single worst metaphor I've ever heard." Toby's voice is oddly strangled. I think he might be laughing. I'm frightened.

"Do I get a prize?" I ask.

"We need a Press Secretary," he says.

"That was random."

"No, I was just thinking how if we had more people here I wouldn't be talking to you. C.J. Cregg."

"No idea who that is," I tell him honestly.

"I talked it over with Leo. We're bringing her in from California."

"If I've never even heard of her, are we sure she's--"

"I know her a little," Toby interrupts. It's the way he says it, not the words.

"Okay," I say. "So can you give us directions or what?"

"I don't even know if you can get here from there," Toby says. "Buy a map."

He's clicked off the line before I have time to protest. I look at Sam. "Well, that went screamingly well," he says.

I juggle the snacks around and take a sip of my coffee. It almost burns my tongue. "It wasn't that bad."

"Yeah. Right. Can I go home now?" he deadpans.

"They're going to love you," I tell him. "Even Toby. Grab a map, will you? We've got to get moving if we're going to get up there before dark."

"You're not going to drive like thirty miles over the speed limit, are you?" he asks. "It's still wet out."

I do my best impression of his little hand-jab-gesture; at least, the best I can do with my hands full. "I'm taking it up a notch."

It's my superior navigational skills that get us back to the right road. Yes, Sam is the one reading the map, but I'm the one implementing it. I think taking the credit is justified here.

"See, I'm from Connecticut," I say. "I know the terrain."

Sam throws me a 'whatever' look. "I should've called Lisa when we stopped."

"You could call her now if you wanted," I point out.

"She hates when I call her from a cell phone anyway. She always says if a phone call isn't important enough to stop and sit down for, you shouldn't waste your time."

"That's stupid."

He isn't listening to me. "She's very smart, you know. Smarter than me."

"Not a lot of people are smarter than you. Apart from me, of course."

"Could you, for once, for me, stop making the jokes?" he says, leaning hard against his door.

"Hey, I'm just trying to--"

His voice gets scratchy. "I was going to marry her."

I change lanes with effortless grace, and I hear myself say, "No, you weren't."

His face does the thing it does where suddenly all his bones are very visible. "What?"

"You weren't going to marry her, Sam, and even if you did, you would've been miserable." Stop talking. Stop talking, asshole. Stop talking. "You'd have been giddy and goofy and delighted for a couple months, and then she'd have bitten your head off over some detail about flower arrangements or china patterns or whatever. Then you'd have been miserable, and it would go like that until you got married, and you'd be honeymooning in the place she picked, where she wanted to go, while I was running a losing campaign for President."

He looks at me like I hit him. Jesus. Why didn't I stop talking?

"I was going to marry her," he says, practically growling. But it's not as effective as it could be, because I think he's afraid he might believe me. But his mouth gets tight sometimes, like a bow across a violin, and I hate that it's me that makes it happen.

"I'm sorry, man," I say. And I am. But I think it was true anyway.

"A losing campaign?" he asks, after a quiet spell. His voice is still rough around the edges.

"It would be."

"Without me?"

"Hoynes, I could win without you," I tell him, and I haven't really thought about it but it's the truth again. "I mean, it'd take a lot of orchestration and a little bit of bloomin' luck." He's entirely unimpressed by my spectacular Cockney accent. "But I could do that."

"And Bartlet?"

"Josiah Bartlet." I pronounce the name slowly. "I don't know. I don't know what's gonna happen. But I need you if we're even going to get in the door."

"Well," he says, looking straight ahead. "I guess that's okay, then."

"Okay?"

Without turning his head, he inches his left hand over until it's resting lightly against my knee.

"Sam?"

He doesn't look. His fingers close. Oh, God. I think I'm going to kill us both, so I pull over to the shoulder.

Things are Getting Weird.

I didn't think. I didn't think it would be this way.

We've been stopped on the side of the road for four, five minutes. I keep having irrational thoughts of '50s B-movies, where the state trooper shines his flashlight into the window, where there's a hook dangling from the door handle. The front of my jeans is undone, and Sam's got his hand there, sliding his fingers inside my shorts.

Damn it. Shit. Damn it.

"Stop it," I say. But nothing comes out when I move my mouth. I try again. "Stop."

Sam looks at me for the first time since we pulled over, eyes wet, skin pale and drawn over those bones. But he doesn't take his hand away. "Josh?"

"Sam." I hate how I sound, hoarse and horny and horrifying. "We, uh, we shouldn't be here."

"Hmm," he says distantly.

"We're supposed to be in New Hampshire." I should move his hand. I should let go of the armrests and reach down and move his hand. Why haven't I moved his hand yet? "We have to get to New Hampshire."

It's never as quiet as it is in movies. There are highway noises as cars pass us, some of them slowing up a little to rubberneck. It stopped raining, but there are tree branches overhanging the road and big wet drops splatter down on the roof and the hood and the windshield. Even still, it's too quiet.

"All right," he says at last. He shouldn't sound like he's doing me a favor. But he does, and he stops touching me. I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. He looks at his hand like he's never seen it before, and finally makes a fist and puts it down on the corner of his seat. I don't know why he does that.

"I mean, we want to get there before dark, right?" I start to steer us back onto the road. Maybe if I keep talking he'll stop looking at me like that. "Otherwise, we're going to be cruising the streets of scenic Nashua. We might stray into, you know, unsavory neighborhoods."

"You came and got me," he mutters.

"And seeing as how I have trouble remembering your phone number, or which one's my ass and which one's my elbow, I don't think I'd recognize the address in the dark. We'd just end up sitting around." I'm grinning like a maniac. "Sitting around on our elbows."

"You came and got me."

I pretend I'm watching the road, but I'm watching him at the corners, letting him go in and out of focus. "Yeah." I grit my teeth together. "I did. I did that. But not for this."

His voice is so small that it makes me realize I thought he was going to yell. "I know," he says. And it's not Sam's fault he looks how he looks, but I can tell he doesn't believe me.

And that's when it hits me. He's right.

This is how I thought it would be. I thought I'd rescue Sam from the clutches of the evil Dragon Lady. I thought he'd come with me to cover my mistakes, that I would cover his; we've always worked well together that way. I thought for a campaign like this, for Bartlet, and for Leo, I want all hands on deck. We need the best. And I'm good. No boasting, just the facts, I'm really good at this. But I'm better with Sam running interference.

And I thought there'd be women on the road, in New York and California and Chicago and Miami. And I didn't know I was thinking that where there weren't those women, there would be Sam and me. And then if things Got Weird, it would be normal. Campaign sex. Par for the course. I thought Sam would be good to have around. I thought he'd be happy I got him away from Lisa...

My God. I thought he'd owe me one. I thought he'd be useful. And so I went and got him. I am the biggest bastard in the world.

"Son of a bitch," I say.

Sam squints at me. "Yeah?"

"I mean me. I'm a son of a bitch. In fact, I'm an extraordinary son of a bitch."

He straightens up a little in his seat. "Yeah."

"No one, anywhere, ever, in the history of the world, has been a worse son of a bitch than I am right here, right now."

"You're a remarkable son of a bitch," he says, with the tiniest smile humanly possible.

"You ought to call Lisa."

Sam rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand. "Yeah, well. When we get there."

I don't think he will. And that's my fault. I don't like it, even though I don't like her. "Really call her," I say.

"I will," he says. "See, the thing is, I'm kind of a son of a bitch too."

"Nah," I say. I'm doing the pedantic voice again, so he knows I'm jerking him around and still being serious. "Compared to me, Samuel, you're only a household pest."

He smiles, the full wattage this time, and punches me lightly on the arm. "Quite a standard you're holding me up to there."

We haven't talked anything over, like women would. We never will. But Sam isn't a girl, and he's not a little boy. He can speak for himself and make his own choices, right? One day maybe he'll be glad of this. Maybe he'll say Lisa's name like a curiosity, like you'd say 'cheetah' or 'debutante,' something that sounds strange and beautiful but definitely not something you have around the house. Or not. Maybe disaster is waiting to happen.

Too late now.

I try flipping through the stations on the radio, but all I keep getting are these fluttery songs, women strumming guitars and harpsichords or whatever and caterwauling about ghosts and twilight. And singing ovaries are all fine, but not when you're on the road. Finally, I find some real music.

"So if you're tired of the same old story..." I'm singing. I sound great. I am great. "Oh, baby, turn some pages..."

Sam smirks at me. "Speedwagon, Josh?"

"You were listening to this in the 80s and you know it," I say. "If I remember correctly, you were the one with Men At Work on vinyl."

"Men Without Hats," he corrects me. "Big difference."

"Well, if this doesn't work out, they'll hire you over at VH1."

"They wouldn't hire you," he counters. "You're not photogenic."

"Whereas you've got photogenic coming out of your--"

"New Hampshire welcomes you," he interrupts, pointing through the windshield, and there's the state line.

I don't know why I'm nervous. I laugh. "I've always wanted to see one that said, you know, 'New York tolerates you.' Or 'Please don't make fun of Rhode Island.'"

"'Delaware. Size doesn't matter,'" Sam offers. "So what's it like here?"

"Cold," I tell him. "Even in October."

"No, no." He drums his fingers on the armrest and looks out the window. "I mean, what's it going to be like?"

I can hear the Governor's voice in my head again, telling it for once like it really is. It's the real thing, like Sam said, and if we do this right, it may become the Real Thing. "It's amazing," I say. "Bartlet has it. He really has it. You'll see. There's a genuine shot here."

"I'm glad," he says soberly.

I'm grinning like a madman again, but this time I know why. "I can't wait, and I mean, I really can't wait until you're introduced to Toby Ziegler."

Sam groans. "I think he probably kicks puppies."

"Probably," I agree. "But you're going to adore him. I feel like Yenta."

"When did you start watching Barbra Streisand movies?" he asks.

"The same time you started eating girly popcorn." I remember what else Toby said. "They're going to bring in a press secretary. C.J. something."

"Good. So I won't have to be the new kid for long."

"No." I shoot him a sly look. "But unless C.J. is still in high school, you'll probably be the baby."

"Screw you," he says good-naturedly. "And then there's Leo McGarry."

Yes, there is. "Leo's the man," I tell him.

"I have no trouble at all believing that." Sam lowers his gaze to the map. "So you think we're going to find Nashua without getting lost again?"

"We'll get there. We'll get this done."

And we will. And we do.