Friday, 8:30 P.M.

For those individuals either influential enough or just lucky enough to obtain admission, a seat at a banquet with the President as guest speaker was not to be missed. For those who did not qualify on either account, waiting outside near the parked motorcade was the next best thing, even at night, especially if they had set their VCRs in advance. While hearing The Man speak could be inspiring in itself, even on tape at home and after the fact, seeing him up close and in the flesh far surpassed any impersonal image on TV.

Nor were these vigils so very boring as a rule. In winter well-muffled bodies huddled for warmth; in rain they shared umbrellas; in anything else (such as this night, a cool summer evening), the lack of physical distraction increased the chatter. Perfect strangers struck up casual conversation with anyone else nearby, discussing aspects of the President's administration in general or the President's policies in particular, or even the President's personality for that matter. Sometimes an especially foresighted citizen would bring a portable television set for catching the live broadcast of the speech, and even the smallest screens attracted a considerable knot of instantaneous new friends. Plus, the most experienced among them could surmise some of what was going on inside by watching the Secret Service agents scattered about, their military stiffness predictable and their discreet but visible earphones a dead giveaway.

Sure enough, their first stir towards full attention indicated that the speech had concluded and that the guest of honor would soon be leaving. Engines were started and lights switched on up and down the length of the limousine motorcade and its formidable escort. Discussions waned and excitement climbed. Then there followed the inevitable, interminable delay inside as officials clustered around to praise this latest political triumph and as security cleared the halls for departure. Many people outside regretted the level of precaution that had to be observed wherever their President went, since it not only made him late but also made it hard for his fellow Americans to see him at close proximity for any length of time.

At long last a door to one side swung open - never the most obvious exit, for obvious reasons - and a veritable parade of men in pristine eveningwear poured out. But the people behind the barriers had eyes for only one of them. Near the troupe's middle ranks, surrounded by activity like the calm eye of a hurricane, not standing out much at all in the unbroken sea of black tuxedos and white shirts worn by all of them (designed to provide precisely that kind of camouflage), not even very striking in height or build, he nevertheless drew everyone's attention without fail. And it wasn't just the familiar face, either. Something about that carriage proclaimed a generous nature, a famous humor... and a degree of supreme political power that few individuals in the history of the entire world could ever know.

The crowd cheered, personal political affiliations forgotten, vying for a good view. Usually he accepted their approval with a word of thanks; now and then those in the first row would overhear snippets of a discussion between him and his staff; on a rare occasion he'd been known to honor one or two of the nearest fans with a brief chat or joke. Certainly, no matter how rushed he might be, President Josiah Bartlet never failed to pause a few moments in full sight and wave his gratitude that all of them were willing to wait so long just for him. He always said he owed their patience that much at the very least.

This night must have been one of the more hurried ones. He strode silently past a hundred applauding supporters to his limo (one of two identical choices, so that any potential attacker would have only a fifty percent chance of guessing right), halted for no more than five seconds to face the people, smile and raise a hand in acknowledgement of their enthusiasm, then ducked inside. The trailing staff members scrambled for their own vehicles and the motorcade started to move, that all-important limo nestled protectively in its center, flanked fore and aft by police motorcycles and Secret Service sedans, red lights flashing away.

Was the long vigil worth that mere glimpse of greatness? You'd have to ask each individual spectator, and you'd certainly get some answers other than a confident "Yes" or a disappointed "No". Celebrity-watching has ever remained a matter of personal perspective.

From the perspective of the man at the center of all this, now cruising through Washington's broad streets, the evening had been a grand success. He sat back against the plush leather upholstery, laced his fingers behind his head, and released a broad grin as the city lights twinkled past, their glow dimmed by highly-tinted, bulletproof auto-glass.

"Ah, this is the life."

The Secret Service agent seated across from him, just as neatly attired yet stiff and silent like a soldier on parade, did not reply. Nor did the driver, fully focused on piloting this ponderous parade float. The broad avenue ahead was an otherwise-deserted corridor in both directions, and every side street had been blocked off by police as well, guaranteeing unimpeded passage, their cherries winking in salute.

The limo's privileged passenger didn't let the professional reticence of his two companions dissuade him. "I remember the first time I had to drive myself through this town." He shook his head. "It was a nightmare."

And it still could be...

The chauffeur realized it first. Checking his mirrors and sides constantly, he glanced right, took a second, longer look - and yelled one word of dire warning:

"ALERT!"

Both men in the rear seats at once sat up, grasping with immediate trepidation that something was seriously wrong, but they had no chance to ask where or even what the problem was. In the next second a blaze of white headlights flooded the limo's starboard side as a fast-swerving sedan launched itself from out of nowhere and rocketed towards them in an undeniable collision course.

The President threw up a hand at this painful glare, and heard the harsh squeal of tires on asphalt as his well-trained driver tried to dodge in the pitifully-brief moment left. A stretch-limousine, however, is not the most maneuverable of vehicles, ranking just ahead of an inter-city bus. The reinforced windows did not disguise the details of the charging car grill - it was already that close - or seal out the roar of a racing engine. And not even these fully-armored pseudo-tanks would be proof against the impact of a half-ton steel missile at high speed. Time might have appeared to freeze itself upon this very instant, so swiftly did the mind perceive each detail... yet there was no time to duck, to summon help, even to cry out. The national might of the United States could not block the inexorable approach of destruction. All that its leader could do, in that splintered heartbeat, was shut his eyes and turn his face away.

The out-of-control sedan followed its own high-beams, as if homing in on the passenger door's presidential seal that they lit so perfectly, and smashed the entire middle span of the limo in upon itself. Shattering steel and plate-glass and the precision of an American top-security motorcade all at once. The limo slammed sideways, rubber and metal shrilled in mutual protest, its once-flawless length literally bending under the savage force. Both vehicles pinwheeled across three lanes - you can thank DC police efficiency for clearing the street of all other traffic - as the entire presidential entourage disintegrated into chaos. Voices wailed into wrist-radios and screeched out of earphones. Cruisers and motorcycles either sprang frantically forward or raced desperately back, sweeping in from all directions like a cloud of flies, even before the limo's twisted wreckage quite stopped moving. Their emergency lights painted the night scene with blood-red strokes as security agents and staff members boiled out onto the pavement and rushed to the aid of the limo chauffeur, the escorting bodyguard... and the man they were all supposed to protect.

The man who now lay in the middle of the street. A crumpled and motionless heap of once-pristine gentleman's elegance, surrounded by metal fragments, glass shards - and damp stains that looked black in the merciless illumination of the encircling headlamps.

Leo McGarry leaped out of his chair, dead-white in an instant. "WHAT?" he shouted into the phone receiver, his expression a study in total horror.

The secretary to the White House Chief of Staff jumped at her boss's bellow. Leo didn't apologize; this jolt was nothing. "Margaret! Get everyone in here NOW!"

She took one look at him and asked no questions.

Donna burst into Josh Lyman's office just as explosively, and even more panic-stricken. "Josh. EMERGENCY."

The Deputy Chief of Staff, on his own phone, hesitated only long enough to meet her frantic eye. "Call you back," he interrupted his chat, hung up without waiting for confirmation, and scrambled to his feet.

"Toby!"

Toby Ziegler's head bobbed up from his paperwork. Mandy Hampton stood framed in the doorway of his office, her stiff, unnatural stance shrieking disaster.

She gasped out only two desperate words. "The motorcade -"

Without a word, the Communications Director dropped his pen and followed her.

Sam Seaborn walked into the bullpen, arms loaded with take-out food, just in time to be met by a breathless Cathy. "Sam! Thank heavens you're back! Leo's office, fast!"

"Oh, hell. What's happened now?" The Deputy Communications Director dropped his warm package onto the nearest desk, changed direction and accelerated, all thought of supper gone in a trice.

Bonnie converged from the other side, clearly having picked up on the grapevine as well. "Whatever it is, it's bad!" Both women ran to keep up with him.

Now running himself, he led the way through the rabbit's warren of halls that formed the backstage of the West Wing. "Then it can only be the President."

CJ Cregg was sharing a laugh with Danny Concannon by one of the water coolers when Josh rounded a nearby corner at a very quick march and seized her arm in passing, dragging her forcibly after him and almost yanking her off her feet to boot.

"Hey -!" She fast got the idea that this was no joke. "What is it?" And a hideous suspicion reared its terrible head in the next two strides at his ominous silence. "Not the -"

"There's been an accident," Josh said shortly without looking back at her. And needed say no more.

"My God." She shook free and picked up the pace, high heels notwithstanding.

Eyes wide, Danny followed as far as he dared, right to the last door beyond which no member of the White House Press Corps may go. And cursed his lesser status for denying him one whopper of a scoop from the very source.

Toby detoured briefly by way of reception outside the Oval Office. The personal secretary to the President glanced up at his swift arrival, and her words of welcome died stillborn at the grim caste to his face.

He strode right up to her, as imperious as any of the Secret Service could hope to be. "Mrs. Landingham, you'll want to hear this."

No news travels faster than tragic news. A veritable flood of humanity streamed towards a common destination: the only possible source of fact. In mere minutes every corridor in the building was deserted - save one. Holding court before as many of the several dozen late-working employees as could cram into his office, Leo cleared up what he could.

"It was a drunk driver. Of all places in the city and all the hours in the day, about fifteen minutes ago he blew past the police escort, lost control of his car... and broadsided the President's limousine."

A choked whisper of shock rippled through the packed room - and quickly stilled again. Waiting anxiously for each word.

"The chauffeur has only minor injuries; he at least was wearing a seatbelt. The escorting bodyguard is critical."

Leo paused, struggling for self-control. Not a sound interrupted him, but every other heart present was screaming one unified thought: No, don't tell us he's dead, he CAN'T be dead -

For those old enough to remember, this was way too much like Dallas in 1963.

"The President is... at this time... still alive."

A concert of held breaths wheezed out at that postponement of the worst-case scenario. Still, there would be no celebrating just yet. Only at this time -

Leo consulted the paper he held, adjusting his spectacles as though he couldn't quite believe what he saw through them. "They only just got him to Walter Reed, so we don't have much yet in the way of details. At the very least there are fractures, internal injuries, possible spinal damage, massive bleeding... and trauma to the head." The Chief of Staff paused for breath. "He was thrown from the limo."

Almost everyone winced and several groaned in vivid sympathy.

Very quietly, "They don't yet know if they can save him."

Every single face wore the exact same tormented expression: He's the President! He HAS to survive!

Leo sighed wearily, helplessly, and lowered the list of damages. Not looking up. "They'll tell us more as soon as they have it."

For several moments, no one else seemed capable of speech or even thought. They were all completely stunned that so simple and careless an act, and the preservation of a single life, could have such tremendous repercussions, for the nation as a whole and for themselves as a functioning unit. It was as if, with the fall of their leader, they had absolutely no idea just what to do next.

And it seemed inconceivable that the rest of the world right outside was proceeding as usual with its multitude of standard activities, totally unaffected. In the White House, life had come to a screeching halt.

Toby stirred first. "What about his family?"

"Both the First Lady and Zoey have already gone to the hospital. The Secret Service have some people on the phone, but I think there are still several out-of-town relations who haven't been reached yet."

A respectful silence.

Leo drew himself up with an effort. "Much as I'd prefer that they find out through a personal call rather than over the air waves, there's no way we can sit on this. CJ, you'll hold a briefing within the hour, as soon as I get a complete diagnosis. And I have no doubt the press room will be full before then."

The White House Press Secretary nodded stiffly. "No doubt."

But just what would she be reporting: injuries... or death?

"The attending staffers for this low-profile thing were Charlie, Franco, Colette, Nancy and Rick. Charlie's staying on at the hospital as long as it takes." Translation: until he was needed either to assist the President's homecoming - or to accompany the President's coffin. "Sam, I want you to keep in touch with him; the kid's pretty shaken up."

The Deputy Communications Director nodded understandingly. "Right."

"The others are on their way here; I'll speak to them myself. Mandy, you might as well start tracking the world news cycle now. God only knows what kind of effect this is going to have on our Middle Eastern fan club."

The public relations specialist nodded readily. "Agreed."

Everyone grasped the concern at once. Certain famously volatile nations might choose this moment of U.S. executive disruption to do something rash. And that was a complication that nobody needed right now.

Leo hesitated again, struck by a new thought. "Oh, before anyone gets any bright ideas about paying a visit to show support, that entire wing of the hospital has been completely locked down. No one gets in." He exhaled. "Not even me."

And this time everyone present heard the anguish he was trying so hard to hide. With all his being, Leo wanted to be at Jed Bartlet's side right now. And he had two extremely compelling reasons to claim that right: he was the President's closest confidant and right-hand man... and he was the President's oldest and dearest friend.

But Secret Service procedure made no allowances for human feelings.

He pressed on quickly with business, before his emotions got the better of him. "And I know how good the scuttlebutt is around here at warping the facts. Toby, I'll make sure any hint of further development gets to you, so that you can keep the whole staff up to date. We don't want anyone spreading hysterics, or scheduling time off for a state funeral before we know it's necessary." And despite this somewhat brutal choice of phrasing, his compassion for the other employees and their own near-panic came through.

Toby inclined his head. "With enough luck and prayer, it won't be."

"Amen." Echoing every listener's sentiments. "Josh, you're with me. The Vice-President is flying out of Atlanta ASAP; he should get here by midnight. The whole Cabinet will assemble as well. We have to implement the Constitution, like it or not."

Several people flinched. The 25th Amendment outlined exactly how to go about replacing the President - temporarily and permanently.

Josh rolled his eyes. "This'll be the most fun of all."

"Yeah, tell me about it," his boss agreed morosely.

There was nothing more to be said. Gradually an atmosphere of resuming at least some order, of buckling down for the long haul, of getting the crisis work done since nothing else could be done - indeed of just filling time and waiting for more news, good or bad - permeated the room. The only thing any of them could do was hope for the best.

And fear the worst.

Leo dropped notes and glasses onto his desk with an air of finality. "As of now, all non-essential operations, and most of the essential ones, are on hold till further notice. When we know more about the President's convalescence -" he swallowed, but drove himself on, refusing to consider any other option yet "- we'll prioritize whatever issues can't hold that long. In the meantime, all of you might as well go home and try to rest up a bit. Senior staff, forget any plans you've made for the weekend. We're going to have quite a time of it."

Not a soul present moved. Clearly they didn't want to risk being out of the information loop for a single moment, couldn't bear the thought of being anywhere else but on hand to hear the next bulletin as soon as humanly possible. It was far past the standard quitting time on a Friday night, but no one said a word about leaving.

The Chief of Staff had turned away, a hand across his eyes as though physically holding back the fear that threatened to undermine his huge responsibilities in the here and now. But he soon noticed this quiet reigning at his back. And slowly revolved, to face a room of silent, united resolution to stick it out.

He regarded them solemnly... and nodded. "Suit yourselves. Believe me, I know how you all feel. But as much as I hate to admit it, we can't help him right now. We're just going to have to wait and see - and deal with whatever happens."

On that pointed dismissal, people gradually and reluctantly began to disperse. Many banded into pairs or small groups, sharing their whispered anxieties, drawing strength from each other, afraid to be alone. Some returned to their duty stations, plunked down in front of paperwork that helped run a nation, yet had suddenly shrunk in importance, and just gazed into space. True, the West Wing never completely slept, with various items on the burner day and night... but what did the finer details of bureaucracy and politics matter now?

The senior staff lingered behind, in case Leo had further comments specifically for them. And because, as those employees with the closest relationship to their Chief Executive, they could not do otherwise. Finding what comfort could be had in togetherness.

The silence and stillness stretched out as they traded glances full of meaning. No words were needed. Mandy leaned into Josh, who put a supportive arm around her. CJ and Sam moved closer together on voiceless, mutual accord until their shoulders touched. Toby stood a bit apart, steepled fingers held to his lips as though in prayer this very minute.

Both hands braced on his desk, head hanging as if he hadn't the energy or the will to lift it, Leo finally looked up. His face drawn and haggard.

Not at all surprised to find them there, watching him.

He didn't have to speak, either. Their tortured features said it all.

If this primary and most prestigious source of news in the country never slept, then neither did the press - which meant that their representatives rarely got a night off either. Well within that promised hour, a score and more of White House Press Corps reporters waited eagerly in the crowded Press Room for what had to be the story of the year.

When CJ marched in the buzz of rumor and hypothesis stopped at once, so that not one word would be missed. And a good thing, for she started in with no preliminaries at all.

"Just so you all know, I'm going to give you all the known details up front. So please don't ask me questions to which I simply don't have the answers."

Hers was the face and the personality that most of the media dealt directly with for the vast majority of the time. As a result, she worked hard to cultivate a relationship of openness and trust, since her level of credibility leant an additional dose of sincerity to the President's public statements and actions. However, the current sharpness to her tone implied that tonight would not be the usual exercise in diplomatic wording and political correctness. She looked physically strained and in no mood for the reserve that her job normally demanded.

"At eight-thirty-eight this evening, the President departed from the Dupont Hotel, after delivering a speech to the ACLU. Meanwhile, one Stanley Bernardo was likewise driving home, alone, with rather more than the legal amount of alcohol in his bloodstream. Why he had a license to drive in the first place is under investigation," she added with an undertone of quiet viciousness. "In any event, he chose to go via N Street, which at that moment was blocked off for the President's passage back to the White House. In his inebriated state he saw the green traffic signal, but he didn't see the DC police officer barring his way. Somehow he swerved safely around the parked motorcycle, and ran straight out onto Connecticut Avenue."

The words became even more clipped, an official report stripped of its emotion - almost. "And of the entire twenty-odd-vehicle motorcade, he still managed to hit the presidential limousine."

The room was silent. A teeth-gritted silence that stretched the nerves taut.

"Now we know why these official processions always include an ambulance - and never have I been more grateful for that fact." CJ paused grimly. "It is not yet certain just how fast Mr. Bernardo was traveling, but suffice to say that both vehicles are write-offs. The limo driver has been treated for whiplash and should be released in the morning. The accompanying Secret Service agent, Kevin Duane, apparently threw himself in front of the President and tried to take the brunt of the impact; at least, that's what is currently being hypothesized. They had to cut him out of what remained of the back seat. He's in Intensive Care in Walter Reed, clinging to life somehow, but we don't have any further detail as to his condition."

CJ had to pause again. "Fortunately - or unfortunately, depending on your personal tolerance level - we now have considerable detail on the condition of the President himself."

And paused yet again. "This information is current as of three minutes ago."

And the very same thought cannoned through every media mind: might something else have happened in those three minutes since?

No one dared say that aloud... as though by not giving it voice, it couldn't come true.

Taking a deep breath, she flipped the page of her report. "The list is daunting. At least he's been quasi-stabilized by now, but he's breathing only with mechanical assistance, and he still hasn't regained consciousness. There's a greenstick fracture of the left ulna. Fractured tarsal bones in the right ankle. Trauma to four thoracic vertebrae, although no evidence of spinal injury yet. Two cracked ribs, three bruised ribs. Two confirmed puncture wounds from metal fragments, in the abdomen and in the chest. At least the internal bleeding has been brought under control, I'm told. There's also a considerable assortment of lacerations and contusions, as might be expected from being hurled through a bulletproof window and then rolled across asphalt." Yet another pause. "And to cap it off, a fracture of the temporal bones of the skull."

CJ slowly removed her glasses and surveyed the room in near-despair. "We're just hoping that won't result in brain damage."

Normally most of the people seated before her would raise arms and shout questions the moment she gave them an opening. Their current stillness felt positively unnatural. For once, everyone in this room of paparazzo adversaries seemed in total agreement. Or shock.

The Press Secretary shook her head dispiritedly. "Right now, all I can think about is the similarity to the 'Titanic'. If, if, if. If this guy had gone anywhere else for happy hour; if he'd left the bar just a bit sooner - or just a bit later; if his timing behind the wheel had been a few seconds off either way; if the President's timing had been a few seconds different; if the President had been sitting on the other side of the limo's back seat..."

Sighing, she rubbed a hand over her face. "As for Mr. Bernardo, he is in Secret Service custody pending formal charges. What do you expect: the man walked away with just a few scratches." Her lip curled, like a wolf baring its teeth prior to the attack.

"Also, a few of the President's more distant family members have not yet been notified. But I'm sure you'll take care of that for us, hmm?"

That was pretty much guaranteed. Nothing would hold this newsflash back.

However much CJ might have hoped, this would not turn out to be the dreamed-of press conference completed with no questions at all. One woman finally spoke up.

"Are we to conclude that the Vice-President is now going to assume executive authority until the President has recovered? Assuming he does recover, of course."

CJ stiffened. Until now she had steadfastly avoided thinking about that entire scenario. But such a blatant reference to replacing President Bartlet, possibly forever, scored deep. She suddenly looked far less concerned than usual about the public (read media) opinion by which all politicians had to navigate to survive.

"Nah, why don't we wheel the President's hospital bed and all of its life-support equipment right into the Oval Office? I'm sure he won't let that inconvenience get in his way." She was losing the battle with herself; the distress couldn't be denied any longer. "One doesn't become President in the first place without having a very strong will - but people have died from lighter injuries than this. Do you need to hear me actually say it? NO, we still don't know for sure if he'll pull through. But we have to keep the nation running anyway."

CJ heaved another ragged sigh and slumped heavily against the podium, drained by her outburst. "Since you asked, Fran, you must know what the Constitution says, and the reason why it says it. Amendment twenty-five, section four. Look it up."

"And has Vice-President Hoynes said anything -"

She slapped her folder shut in overspilling irritation, usually so cool and composed, usually the last one to lose her temper. "Look, I said at the start that I'd give you everything I have. Now you know as much as I do. And I know your editors are all waiting anxiously to launch their emergency broadcasts and early editions, so I'd advise you not to waste each others' time. As for myself, I've got nothing but time to waste tonight. When I get more information, whenever that may be, and whether it's for better or worse, rest assured I'll let you know."

And on that note, CJ strode brusquely from the room.

Seated several rows back, Danny jumped up and followed her. She gave no sign that she noticed him, hurrying through the winding West Wing corridors as though the only important thing right now was putting as much distance as possible between herself and the unpleasant news she had just released that was about to wake up an unsuspecting America. Never mind the rest of the world.

"Are you all right?" he called after her.

CJ didn't slow down, knowing that he intended to accompany her all the way back to her office whether she gave him permission to do so or not.

"Sure - why wouldn't I be?" she flung over her shoulder, turning another corner even faster. "Look, I'm not a night person, okay? At least not when it's the night that the leader of the free world chooses to pick a fight with a speeding sedan and lose." As if all this were the President's fault. That in itself was a clear indication of just how agitated she felt; the senior staff never poked malicious fun at their Commander-in-Chief.

"Worried about your job?"

She whirled on the newshound so fast he almost banged into her, and her eyes were flaming as they hadn't before despite the tension of her public statement earlier. "That's rather heartless, Danny. Even for a reporter. And especially for you. Sure, a new President probably means a new Press Secretary. Like I really care right now."

He raised both hands at once in desperate defense. "Hey, I didn't mean it that way, honest! What I tried to say was, I know you're worried about doing your job. That had to be the hardest briefing you've done in your life. And you were good, CJ. Sure, you're upset. I understand. So does everyone else."

Their respective careers aside, they liked each other. A lot. Even after the whole issue on conflicting interests, an almost visible attraction persisted. But decorum had to be observed, and a battle of wits made a pretty good smoke-screen. Normally CJ would counter his wisecracking advances without delay or effort. It had become almost second nature.

Not this time, however. This time her expression was hard.

"And I make no excuses for it. Contrary to popular belief, some people actually like the President - both as a politician, and as a person." And she meant every word.

Danny grinned automatically. "Can I quote you?"

"You can haul your wisecracking butt out of here," she virtually snarled, resuming her flight in a desperate effort to leave him behind.

"Okay, okay! CJ, I'm sorry! No more jokes, all right? It's the stress talking. CJ -"

"Go - away - now." Her office was only a few more yards ahead and she gained enough of a lead to swing the door shut between them.

He blocked it before the latch caught, and calmly let himself in. "I don't think so."

Halfway across the modest room, CJ immediately reversed course at his presumption, threw her file at her desk - as opposed to on it - and advanced upon him with clenched teeth. She was taller by a good two inches in those heels and looked ready to turn that height advantage into a physical advantage. "I do, and don't think I won't throw you out myself."

Danny closed the door and set his back against it just as she seized him by the lapels. His actions were so audacious, and so quietly determined, that she hesitated in surprise.

"Look, you know that I know and like the President myself. I'm really worried about him, too." He drew in a not-entirely-steady breath. "CJ, I don't want to go back to my desk alone and just wait for the next bulletin. I'd much rather wait with a friend." And paused again. "How about you?"

For several seconds neither of them moved, eyes deadlocked.

Right here, right now, they had something in common. Something very strong. Something completely unrelated to romance. Fear.

When the truth of that finally got past her tough, no-nonsense personal armor, CJ did not admit aloud that Danny was right... but she did move her hands from his blazer to his shoulders, as though seeking support. Bowed her head, blinking back tears. And didn't resist when he drew her into a gentle hug.

In his office, Toby was alone and working - or rather, attempting to work. At first glance, one would assume him to be intensely focused on the drift of pages across his desk. His stillness seemed to endorse this image... but each effort at cohesive thought ended either in a depressing daydream or in a passing interruption. And there were plenty of both.

"Toby, have you heard anything?" one of the clerks asked in passing.

Chin in palm as though in deep contemplation, he didn't look up. "No."

"Damn. Well, if you do, you'll let me know?"

"Sure."

"Thanks." The guy left.

Toby fiddled aimlessly with his pen, then started tapping it against the desk's blotter in a preoccupied, mechanical fashion. One, two, three, four, five -

Sure enough, another head poked in. "Toby, anything new?"

He still didn't look up. "Not yet."

"Oh. Well, if something comes in - "

"I'll let you know."

"Right. Sorry to bother you."

"Oh, you're not bothering me," he muttered. "Why would anyone think that?" But the asker had already left. Just as well; it was hardly true, anyway.

One, two, three, four -

"Toby?"

Might as well nip this one in the bud. "No, there's nothing new."

"Thanks. Uh, can I stay for a bit anyway?"

For the first time his gaze lifted. Sam leaned on the door jam, hands in pockets, tie askew, as preoccupied and at loose ends as everyone else except his boss did not deny feeling.

"Oh, sure. I can use the distraction."

"Yeah, I can see that." Sam slipped quietly into a chair opposite, crossed his arms, and said nothing. Seemingly content just to be there.

Toby returned his unfocused vision to the desktop. And after a fairly long pause he commented idly, "You do realize that the strong, silent approach is not going to wheedle out information that does not exist?"

Sam shrugged. "Well, I had hopes. But at least here I'll get it as fast as you do."

"You don't have some urgent task to do like everyone else?"

"Well, a little while ago my task consisted of bringing in late night provisions. And seeing as my last delivery has long since grown cold and soggy, resuming my duties would mean that I'd have to go out for more." He raised both hands, as though this young yet astute political expert was actually unable to make a decision. "And for some unaccountable reason I'm experiencing a real reluctance to absent myself for any length of time in the foreseeable future."

"Gosh, I wonder why."

"Maybe it's agoraphobia. That would give me a patented excuse to stay here all night."

"How convenient. Whoever files first will be awarded the license."

A deep quiet very irregular for the West Wing descended around them. For two heartbeats.

"Toby -" a new voice began from the door.

"No, I do not have any new information, and yes, I will let you know when I do." He didn't look up.

"-O-kay. Bye." Warned by this too-level tone, the woman departed quickly.

In the restored illusion of peace, Sam scratched his jaw where the hint of five o'clock shadow had begun to itch. And glanced at his boss somewhat enviously; men with established beards never looked so unkempt.

But on the down side, the beard did accentuate the shadows around his boss's face.

Toby sighed, still not raising his eyes. "I'm going to kill him."

Sam blinked. "Who - Leo? Or the President?"

"Whichever of them I run across first." Someone less familiar with the Communications Director might actually believe him. "Leo for setting me up as the central switchboard to a hundred apoplectic employees who won't leave me alone... and the President for not having the grace to miraculously heal himself at once and put us all out of our misery."

"I'll be sure to mention that you're gunning for them. The President will definitely know better next time."

Toby tossed him a resigned glance, then dropped his eyes again. "Your eternal good humor is especially insufferable in moments like this."

"Hey, we all deal with stress in our own way." Sam stared into the ethernet, running a hand through his hair in pretended nonchalance - which was belied by his next words. "The man I want to get my hands on is that drunk."

Toby didn't move. "Dibs."

"Yeah, whatever his name is," Sam muttered absently, not really listening. "Good thing he's under lock and key is all I can say." His youthful features were growing positively vindictive.

"You'd have to wait in line."

"I doubt the President will be in any shape to meet out personal retribution for a little while at least, but he could always delegate to us and have the pleasure of watching." Sam was sounding more serious by the moment.

"If he does, it's to me." Toby threw him another glance. This one glittered. "I get first dibs to tan our tipsy assassin's hide and mount it on the Oval Office wall."

His colleague brightened a bit. "Hey, talk about a homecoming present."

"Nothing but the best for our hospitalized Chief Executive - "

"Toby?" a new voice broke in.

It might well have been the retribution-planning that had stretched something a little too thin. This time it snapped. "THERE'S NO FURTHER NEWS!"

The explosion was jarring. Sam jumped in his seat.

Mandy retreated a step from the threshold, one hand held protectively over her heart. "Right." She took a deep breath. "Well, thanks for telling the whole office."

Toby turned away. He was renowned for concealing his emotions, with a better poker face than the President himself, but regret could clearly be read at this moment. "Sorry." And exhaled. "Like you said, Sam... we all deal with it. One way or another."

"No problem." After an awkward moment, Mandy stepped inside. Content to lean against the open door, ignoring the other empty chair. Despite the late-night tension that permeated the entire building, her pantsuit was still pristine, her hair perfect, and her poise as self-confident as ever... but not even this fiercely independent private political operator could appear totally unaffected. "I suppose you don't want everyone to move in with you for the next few hours, but I was just wondering how you guys were doing."

"About as well as can be expected." Sam inclined his head in the direction of their unusually-volatile colleague as evidence. "We were just killing time with theories about the best method of killing a president-killer."

"Huh! You and the rest of the House. And I have the perfect solution. My nails are longer than either of yours." She flexed one hand, her fingernails for a moment chillingly similar to the claws of a tiger.

Sam studied their polished length, then her absolutely humorless expression. She sounded more dangerous than Toby at his best. "Hmm, not bad. I'd like a ringside seat - and I wouldn't be the only one. That is, assuming you draw the lucky number. Right now there are quite a few others vying for that honor."

"An honor it would be."

"You'll get no objection from me." And the silence agreed emphatically with him.

Of all White House affiliates, if not all political operatives in DC, Mandy liked inaction the least. To her high-charged, politically-gifted mind, patience and ambition were mutually exclusive. She scrounged for some new topic.

"Say, they're tuned into the networks outside. Want to join the crowd?" Never mind that each member of the senior staff possessed in his or her office no less than three TV sets for catching multiple newsbreaks; there was something to be said for support in numbers.

"You think CBS has more information to offer than I do?" Toby asked with deadly softness, shooting her a hard glare under dark brows.

She accepted the challenge at once, though less belligerently than usual. "No - I think they think that any news, even familiar news, is better than no news at all."

"By the time the anchors get the news, it'll have been amended six ways to Sunday."

"I thought you wanted us to stop asking you every five minutes."

"I am not in the mood to watch spontaneous interviews with distraught citizens who never voted for him in the first place."

Sam tried to ease the cynicism. "I know what you mean; I'm having enough trouble dealing with my own thoughts right now. The personal pain aside, it's downright dismaying how this affects absolutely everything we do."

Mandy nodded her full agreement. "Then you'll be glad to know that no international rumblings have commenced - yet. Which is not to say that they soon won't. It's just too early. Even political insurrection takes time to come to a boil."

"Something to look forward to."

Then a new idea occurred to him. "Say, have you heard anything about the Family?"

"I know that one of the First Daughters is overseas; no telling when she'll be able to catch a flight home. And the other simply cannot get away just now. Her daughter's too sick."

Sam closed his eyes in empathy. "God, what a choice to make."

"That's another thing," Toby interposed. "During our bloodthirsty debate earlier, we seem to have forgotten someone else. Did you speak to Charlie yet?"

Sam shifted in his seat. "Yeah, I got through not long ago. I'm really glad he's there; Zoey sure needs someone to lean on right now."

"And how is she doing?"

Mandy switched into indignant mode. "How would you feel if your father was fighting for his life just down the hall and you were told you couldn't be with him?"

"Well, I personally would care less about the security issue or the hospital rules," Toby said, still in profile, hands clasped and voice quiet, yet his opinion set in cold marble.

"My sentiments precisely." These two had waged some rousing arguments in recent memory, on a wide range of topics. They had a lot in common that made such arguments inevitable: both thoroughly enjoyed the taste of combat, defended their logic in the face of all opposition and hated to yield a point. On those infrequent occasions where they actually found themselves in consensus, the rest of the senior staff knew to pay attention.

"I think I can name one person around here who's not interested in us winning the next election," Sam mused, in a weak effort to lighten things at least a bit.

"Oh?" Mandy folded her arms in the way she had when answering the call to battle. "You might be in for quite a surprise. She's inherited a lot of strong qualities from both her parents."

"Great. We can pride ourselves in nurturing the President of the next generation."

"And Charlie?" Toby persisted, more quiet than ever.

Sam rubbed one temple. "He seems to be holding up okay too, all things considered. It's kind of hard to quantify this sort of thing, you know."

Two very somber faces agreed.

"He was riding a few sedans back down the line, so he didn't see the actual impact, but he reached the scene before the ambulance did."

A genuinely painful pause ensued, and from the creases on his boyish face you could tell Sam's imagination was working overtime. "He didn't say much about that - but I can tell you how I'd have felt if I'd been on Connecticut an hour and a half ago... just standing there, helpless... staring down at... "

His words petered out. Neither Toby nor Mandy asked him to continue.

The Roosevelt Room's polished wooden conference table gleamed under the low lighting of well-dimmed ceiling pot-lamps, majestic in its undisturbed semi-dark perfection. Historic works of art cast half-defined silhouettes against shadowy walls. Priceless paintings gazed down at this setting of countless national-level decisions in voiceless contemplation. The silence was complete.

One door opened soundlessly. No hinges were allowed to creak in this House.

Backlit by the brighter hall illumination, the young man peered into the gloom until he found what he sought.

The female figure had selected a chair in the very back corner. Her body was twisted sideways, elbows propped on a side-table, blond hair a disheveled cascade.

"Nancy?"

Too drugged by her emotions to jump at this sudden voice, she looked up slowly.

He advanced a few cautious steps. "How are you doing?"

She didn't move. "I'm okay, Rick." But her tone sounded less than convincing.

"Well, I'm not." He edged closer - until his adapting vision detected the course of tears down her face. And stopped. "Listen, I don't want to intrude. I'd just really rather not be alone right now... and I thought you might feel the same way."

Pause.

"I don't know what I feel," she said listlessly, looking away.

Rick accepted this indifference as permission to approach. "Yeah. Me too." He eased into the chair beside her. "We're kind of like - survivors of a disaster. Nobody else can really understand. None of them have gone through what we did."

She didn't answer him. He didn't push. It was enough to just sit quietly and find some measure of comfort in comradeship.

Silence lingered between them, until Nancy let out an enormous sigh.

"This excursion was supposed to be a wonderful chance for us. Not important enough to drag out the senior staff. We were trusted to handle it on our own."

Rick studied her. "Come on, you can't blame yourself for anything. We serve the President. The Secret Service have to protect him."

"I know, I know! But I just can't get over this feeling that we... we let him down somehow. When it came to the crunch, we were absolutely useless." Pause. "And since we couldn't help, they sent us away."

Reality is harsh at times. All Rick could do, faced with that stinging truth, was nod.

"You know," Nancy mused after another lapse, "I absolutely love it when someone asks me what my job is. I can say I work for the President, exactly the same way anyone else would mention the corner store. But sometimes - I don't realize myself what an incredible privilege it is. We have daily contact with him. We know him. Most people will never even meet him! Boy, what they wouldn't give to be in our shoes, even for a day." She brushed at her tears. "We're a part of the highest possible echelon of power. Sometimes we actually influence it. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to made a real difference in the world."

Her voice wavered. "I never in my life thought I could take that for granted."

Rick empathized perfectly. In the semi-darkness that matched their mood so well, he reached over and rested his hand on her arm. "Until tonight, huh?"

"Until tonight. I'm not taking anything for granted right now." Nancy paused to take stock of herself. "I never felt this way about any other boss I've had. In fact, I don't think I was ever this worried about my own parents." She turned to look at her colleague directly. "Why is that? What's the draw? Is it the history? The prestige? Or just something about him?"

Rick managed a grin. "If I had to guess, I'd say all of the above. He is the most powerful man in the world, you know. And he's a terrific guy, too. But he's still human, Nance. He can make mistakes... and he can be hurt."

"Well, I don't know about too many mistakes. And I can't bear to think of him - "

Her shoulders started to shake.

Rick exhaled. "We have to face it: there are some things even the President of the United States can't do."

"Well, he can't die," Nancy stated unyieldingly. "We need him."

Very gently, Rick put his arm around her.

"Sure... and right now he needs us. And we're going to hang in there for him."

Whether the President was present in the Oval Office, expected at any moment or gone from the White House entirely, the reception area Mrs. Landingham presided over almost always seemed to emanate serene efficiency tempered with a subtle vigilance. The Grand Entrance, front atrium and state chambers where kings and emperors were formally received managed to look regal and unhurried on the most hectic of days; the administrative offices, by contrast, hardly lost their energetic hum even in the dead of night. In this most prestigious of waiting rooms, both worlds melded into a unique atmosphere of calm preparedness.

When Carol walked in, the President's secretary jerked her head up so fast she could have suffered whiplash herself. But the only response to her silent, anxious query was a pair of empty hands. She sighed and resigned herself to the status quo.

"I take it no one's heard anything."

"Absolutely nada." CJ's assistant put her hands on her hips. "I've never seen this place so tight-strung. Something has to break. One way... or the other."

There didn't seem to be anything else to say. Carol just stood there, glancing idly around as she'd almost never had the chance to do before on her standard workdays of racing countless deadlines... and eventually registered on the click of computer keys.

"How can you work at a time like this?"

Mrs. Landingham didn't pause. "Oh, one becomes accustomed to blocking out a variety of distractions around here." She reached for a folder to one side. "Secret Service sweeps, visiting diplomats, political upheavals..."

"I'll bet. That would sure keep me in practice." Carol drummed her fingers on a side table. "I never thought I'd say this, but it's a good thing after all that the work still has to go on. At least it provides some distraction."

"Are you having much success distracting yourself?" Mrs. Landingham asked with deceptive casualness.

Her visitor didn't hesitate. "No."

"In case this makes you feel better, I'm not having quite as much success as it looks like, either."

Carol's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Really? The illusion's pretty good."

A secret smile. "I get a lot of practice in this as well."

Donna appeared next. Carrying, on a tray, three cups of steaming coffee.

She hesitated in the aperture. "How welcome am I?"

Carol grinned. "When coffee is included, you're welcome anywhere." She reached for a caffeine fix. "So, what brings you around? As if I couldn't guess."

"Uh, chiefly the fact that Josh is tied up and Toby doesn't know any more than anyone else." Donna's effort at being cheerful was strained around the edges.

Mrs. Landingham grimaced as she took a cup. "Much more of this and we'll be bouncing off the ceiling."

"Lately it's the only thing that's kept body and soul together." Carol frowned. "What - no muffins?"

Donna circulated the sugar and cream. "You try negotiating through that labyrinth with a loaded tray when everyone's running around as if we'd just declared war on Cuba."

"Never mind," Mrs. Landingham advised with a matronly look. "Have a cookie." She nodded to the large crystal cookie jar that always held court on her desk.

CJ's assistant accepted that invitation, then slid a hip onto the desk corner. There wasn't an abundance of chairs here; normally, if you got this close to the Oval Office, the President would be waiting inside to receive you at once. "Let's just treat this as a much-needed breather in the constant administrative pressures of Government."

The glance that the President's secretary gave her was pure stoicism. "My dear, this is just the calm before the storm."

"Well, I admire your calm."

"The President is at his coolest in an emergency. Usually." She paused on that qualifier. "I can hardly be less so."

Her guests read between the lines: a lot went into smoothing his upsets as well.

Donna tossed her hair and picked up the third coffee mug. "I wish he'd give Josh a few lessons in self-control."

This time Mrs. Landingham stopped completely. "No, you don't."

Now that statement was suggestive. Both visitors raised eyebrows.

"Let me just say that on those rare occasions when his temper slips, it is a thing to behold."

"Really? So, now I know where Josh gets it."

Silence fell. Even the keyboard was left alone while they shared the coffee, each other's company... and the omnipresent suspense.

Donna wandered over to the patio doors that led onto the back lawn, studying the picked-out pattern of Washington's downtown lights on black velvet and the towering Monument like a silver-white arrow aimed at Heaven. And sighed. "The waiting is always the worst."

"I'll second that." Carol got up and started to pace; she couldn't help herself any longer. "I was told from the first that this job would have late nights. Formal functions, important briefings, even national crises. But not - " Her voice cracked a bit.

Donna picked up the thread. "Not the end of the world." She rubbed her arms as though she felt chilled. "You know the President is at risk every day from criminals and nutcases... but you don't expect such a simple, stupid accident. Just like anyone else."

"If only he'd worn a seat-belt."

"You want to be the one to tell him to buckle up?"

"Do those limos even have belts for the back seats?"

"If they do and he doesn't, would anyone dare ticket him?"

Mrs. Landingham culminated the debate with a sigh of her own. "After today, surely he won't need to be encouraged."

And the undercurrent of her words seemed to ring through the air around them: Assuming he lives through this one...

In the Chief of Staff's office, Leo and Josh were preparing to do what no one else in the West Wing would volunteer for right now: leave the immediate area and delay their catching the first whisper of news. But duty was duty.

The same duty that prevented a man from going to a friend who needed him.

"The Secret Service will contact us the second they hear anything. We're not even leaving the building." Leo did his best, but clearly he did not want to move beyond earshot of his own phone for a single moment, for any reason. He kept in constant motion, shifting papers from desk to briefcase to filing cabinet and back, just so that his hands didn't have time to shake... and his face looked more deeply lined than it might have earlier this evening.

"Yeah, I keep telling myself that, too." Josh leaned against the opposite wall, sleeves rolled up, arms folded, able to do little else except watch. "And meanwhile the word just trickles out, unconfirmed, and in no time it'll be twisted beyond all recognition."

He hesitated, then abandoned that concern as something he could do nothing about anyway. Another factor needed his attention more. "Look, whichever way this goes, we're going to get through it. Together."

Leo deliberately misinterpreted him. He did not want to go there. "The nation will survive, Josh. It's just too damned big to hinge entirely upon one man." Which was, from a national perspective, true enough. Over not much more than two centuries, one U.S. President in five has died in office.

His tone grew remote. Withdrawn. "Sure, we've all invested a good chunk of our careers in this administration. But nothing lasts forever, and you have to move on. I've done it."

Not this way, though. Not by the death of part of himself.

Josh persisted. "That's not what I'm talking about -"

So much for dodging the issue. "Thank you, but I've already been through this on the phone with my wife and my daughter. Hell, Jenny has known the Bartlets almost as long as I have, and Mallory's known them all her life." Leo's tone had a real edge to it. "And you know that I don't need any further distractions right now. There's too much work that has to get done."

The rifling of pages sounded louder than ever. Anything to fill the void.

"Leo, I think I've got a pretty good idea how you feel."

Both hands descended to the desk surface, and were still. The sudden quiet where neither of them wanted quiet was unsettling.

Leo kept his eyes averted and his voice tightly reined. "Josh, you're nowhere near forty yet. How can you imagine what it's like to have a forty-year-old friendship? When you're convinced sometimes that you know that person better than you know yourself?"

Silence.

"I haven't known you that long," Josh pointed out, with a softness and a sensitivity that many people who saw mostly his brash wit would not have accredited him. "Or Toby, or CJ, or Sam." He shrugged. "Even a comparatively young friendship can still mean a lot. I wouldn't want to see any of you die. And I sure wouldn't want to see any of you suffer brain damage."

Silence.

"The truth is, I'm not at all sure which possibility scares me more." Leo sounded almost bewildered, lost. It took him several seconds to put his darkest fears into words. "Either way, I lose the man I've always known."

Josh said nothing. What comfort could expressions of sympathy bring here, now? None, for either of them. All he had to offer was himself. A friend.

Somewhere in the stillness, this silent yet palpable support penetrated, and the Chief of Staff recalled that he wasn't the only one suffering here. And, that calculating degrees of suffering between people served no good purpose. His head turned. His eyes were haunted by a sorrow beyond tears.

"We all lose him."

Several more seconds ticked by almost audibly. Josh chose this time to move a few steps closer, a testimony to wordless compassion.

His boss looked down again. "Damnit, I should be there. Even if it's only to pace the halls with his family - "

Then Leo sighed, venting a horrible pressure that simply had no outlet. "He's the President of the United States. He's Abbey's husband. He's Zoey's FATHER!" He closed his eyes, and his volume dropped to a near-whisper. "What right do I have to feel so bad?"

Josh waited a beat. "All the right in the world. He's your friend."

"He's also my President, and I have a responsibility to him. But I complied when he said that he didn't need me tonight. Might as well let some of the younger staff have the experience." Leo's words came harder now. "If only I'd done the proper thing and gone along anyway. At least then I'd have had a decent enough excuse to be at the hospital with him!"

There was a problem with this scenario, and Josh hesitated to mention it. "If you had gone, you probably would've been in the limo with him, too."

Their eyes locked, grasping the full scope of repercussion.

"Better that than not knowing." The thought of enduring such a collision held no power over Leo at this time.

Josh shook his head at that one. "Ugh, I don't know... we really can't do without our Commander-in-Chief and our Chief of Staff. One of you has to carry on."

Another long pause.

If there was one aspect to said Chief of Staff's character that stood out above the rest, it was his unswerving devotion to duty. His gaze lowered, dispirited, resigned. "Yeah."

Enough of this pessimism. Josh shifted into encouragement. "Leo, he's going to be okay. We all have to believe that. The President has surprised us before. And I expect people are praying for him all over the country by now."

After yet another long, long moment, Leo nodded.

"I don't know if the collective will of the people can have any physical effect... but I do know that he'd be very grateful to hear that."

And slowly he straightened again, as though resuming a burden that might have become marginally less oppressive.

His subordinate took that as a good sign. And pressed on with the business that must be faced. "In the meantime we have some serious planning to do. No telling how long he may be incapacitated. The other thing I'm worried about is the Vice-President."

Leo seized upon the change of topic gladly. "Leave Hoynes to me. I have some history there as well to draw on if needed." He started shuffling papers again. Regulating anxiety to the back burner. There was no other way to function.

"If the President can think straight at all, he'll want to be back on the job at once, one way or another. And Hoynes sure won't like that." Reduced to just standing around for this interlude, Josh just stood. And fidgeted. "How unconstitutional do you think this can get?"

His boss glanced up. "Are you proposing we lock the President in his room until he gets a clean bill of health?"

Josh smiled his relief at this return of humor, however slight. "You'll never convince him it's for his own good."

Leo grimaced at the thought. "Tell me something I don't know."

Time to get to the point. The Deputy Chief of Staff exhaled, like a pot on the boil. "Leo, there's no love lost between the President and Hoynes. You know that. I know that. Everyone who works here knows that."

"Josh -"

"I'm just saying, Hoynes knows how close you are to the President. And he must figure that the senior staff is about as loyal. Naturally he'd prefer to work with his own people rather than us. What if he tries to clean house?"

"Then hand him a mop and pail!" In truth, Leo valued the Vice-President's worth rather more than that, but his emotions were wearing thin tonight.

"I'm not talking about just the White House." Josh paused for impact. He was a highly regarded strategist throughout the political arena; his theories merited consideration. "I'm also thinking about the House of Representatives."

Leo stopped his file-stacking again, this time in surprise. "He can't do that, even if he's President himself."

"But what about the chance of a long-term convalescence? We don't know - even assuming the President does make a full recovery, he might be bedridden for months! Could Hoynes plead the nation's best interests and demand a more compatible working environment around here?" Josh waved his arms with nervous energy. "Will he start drumming up some personal support in Congress?"

The Chief of Staff frowned ominously. "Not if he values his career in politics, heir apparent to the Presidency notwithstanding." And he sounded very sure of that.

Josh stuffed both hands in his pants pockets, as though drawing an irrevocable line in the sand. "I know the House of Reps is not our business." And he paused again. Deliberately.

"But if he tries it here - we the people... walk."

For a moment Leo just stared at him.

"What, you've got a petition circulating or something?"

Josh looked far too confident for a man bluffing with the uppermost strata of American social and political structure. "I don't need one."

Leo did not reply. But then, neither did he issue a direct challenge to that declaration of independence. Perhaps it didn't come as so much of a surprise after all.

A soft knock was followed by Margaret's timid entrance. "Leo?" she practically whispered.

They turned to her in unison.

"Phone." Her voice almost broke. "The hospital."

The two men traded a fateful look. This was it: the message they all so anticipated - and dreaded.

Having discharged her primary function, Margaret did not leave as a secretary should. And her boss did not dismiss her. She needed to know, too.

Slowly, Leo reached over to pick up... and hesitated for one more heartbeat, one more deep breath. Whatever information waited on that line, events had already occurred and were quite irreversible. Now that it had come at last, he was afraid to find out. Terrified to learn that his best friend - that the U.S. President - no longer existed.

But he had to know. Not only for himself, but for everyone else.

For the whole nation. Indeed, for the world.

All three braced themselves as, finally, portentously, he lifted the receiver.

"McGarry."

Margaret gripped Josh's arm. He didn't move, every muscle tense.

"I know who you are, Doctor." How Leo kept his voice from trembling was a minor miracle. "Please - just cut to the chase."

Silence for one second. Two. Three.

Then, inch by inch, Leo's face sagged and his shoulders slumped. With agonizing slowness, he sank back into his chair as though completely drained of strength.

Josh and Margaret did not relax at all. Rather, their nerves tightened even more unbearably. This graphic reaction could mean news either wonderful or devastating.

Several rapid heartbeats slammed painfully against the ribcages of the two people unable to hear both sides of this critical conversation, before Leo managed a very quiet "Agreed."

With WHAT?

A dozen more lifetimes seemed to pass; then, tonelessly, "Thank you." And with a hand that shook just a bit, he hung up.

And sat there, features slack, eyes on a distant horizon.

It took him another three endless seconds to remember that he wasn't alone in his office, and to look around. Expression unchanging.

WHICH IS IT? two teeth-clenched faces shrieked at him.

"He's going to make it."

Margaret almost fainted on the spot. Gasping for air - he had no memory of holding his breath in the anguish of the moment - Josh reacted in time to steady her as she staggered.

Leo was too overwhelmed to even smile. Feeling positively light-headed.

"Thank God on high, he's going to live."

His secretary made an inarticulate sound halfway between a laugh and a sob and threw her arms around Josh's neck, White House decorum be damned. He didn't mind; in fact, he hugged her back. And he did laugh.

Leo kindly waited until they were calm enough to hear more.

"He's already been upgraded from critical to serious. His breathing is stronger, his heart-rate is regular, and his blood pressure has been restored. And they seem pretty sure that the concussion won't cause any mental complications. He'll be coming home soon, with all the equipment and attendants needed. Maybe as early as Sunday or Monday, depending on how things go. The healing time might as well be spent here; it'll be easier on him, on his family, on the hospital staff, and on the Secret Service."

"I can think of a few others to add to that list," Josh said in an attempt at his usual smart-aleck attitude. Like a declaration that things were finally returning to normal.

Margaret was dabbing at her eyes. By now all three wore grins so broad it hurt. Another second or two ticked past as they just savored this indescribable moment of such tremendous news... and the heady sensation of being not only the sole individuals in the White House but among those very few in the entire anxiously-waiting world who possessed it. However, even in this ecstasy it was cruel to delay the proclamation. Leo sat up.

"Okay, Margaret, spread the good word." Now that was a joyous command. "Just make sure you tell Toby first, or else he'll never forgive us. Oh, and inform CJ that I'll brief her for the next release as soon as we get back."

His secretary flashed an even more radiant smile and left the office at a run. Anyone outside who even glimpsed her face would guess the basic headline at once. This particular broadcast should beat any other grapevine record hands down.

Leo ran a handkerchief slowly across his forehead. "Whew. So much for the most frightening ordeal of my life."

"Here, here." Josh sighed, equally wrung out. "You feeling better now?" he couldn't resist asking.

After their previous heart-crushing conversation on this topic, a touch of comedy felt marvelous. "Better than a long-shot majority on the last ballot."

"Wow, that is good." Josh grinned anew. "Well, this wraps up today's little drama. All that's left is the denouement." He glanced towards the door. "I really hate to leave now. This place is going to see quite a celebration. Be a shame to miss it."

"I know what you mean, but you and I are a little indispensable right now." With the elimination of grief came a new purpose. Leo rose and stepped around his desk, once again fully focused on the task ahead. He looked at the time. "We can't put the Vice-President and the Cabinet off just to party, even for this."

"Do we have to tell Hoynes just how temporary his new role will be?"

"Oh, wouldn't it be great if he found out from someone else."

Josh retrieved his blazer from a nearby chair. "Yeah - but a longer period of ignorance might give him enough rope to hang himself."

"For pity's sake, Josh, the man is on our side!"

"Is he?"

For one long moment, the Chief of Staff had no honest reply. Then,

"He'd better be."

The utter silence could almost be heard as a genuine sound in itself. Nancy and Rick sat side by side in their large, historic, half-lit chamber of isolation, as motionless as the statues around them that shared this vigil. Speaking no empty words, sharing no worried glances... just leaning into each other's solid presence, clinging to that small comfort against the demons of horror that wrapped them round.

When Rick finally moved, he did so rather stiffly from his long stillness.

"Nancy?" he whispered, as though afraid that the slightest unnecessary noise might tip the precarious scales of presidential survival.

She blinked. Rising from the coils of imagination's fanciful mists, back to reality's bitter substance. Looked at him.

"Something just occurred to me: no one else knows we're here. Think I'll stick my head outside... see if there's any news."

She did not reply verbally, but her eyes said it all: that there were only two possible kinds of news. And the odds were not in their favor.

"You'll be okay for a sec?"

Pause. "Sure." That one word barely carried the eighteen inches between them.

"I'll be right back," he promised. "Regardless."

These doors were virtually soundproof, considering the high levels of discussion that took place regularly within. No hint of external affairs had penetrated. Nancy silently watched Rick cross the Roosevelt Room, one slow step at a time, trying to prepare himself for what could all too easily be awaiting them just beyond...

The door swung open without a squeak. The silence rushed out.

And the cacophony of raised voices rushed in.

It took them both a couple of very painful seconds to realize that these were not cries of lamentation as they so feared - but of joy, such as they had not dared to hope.

Rick whirled. Nancy leaped up. Holding themselves still for one more long breath, just to be absolutely sure that their hearts were not deceiving them.

And then they ran from the room together.

"Toby!"

He glanced up from his desk. Not with eagerness, as might be expected in this scenario - but with apparent disinterest.

Ginger was too overjoyed to notice. "He's going to be okay!"

No question of whom she meant. Around here, "he" referred to no one else. Especially now.

"I heard." Toby resumed writing.

"What a relief! Oh, I've never been so worried!"

"I know."

"And he's coming home already! It can't be that serious!"

"It can't."

Something in this lack of enthusiasm finally penetrated. Ginger actually looked at him.

"Are you all right?"

He didn't meet her eye. "Oh, sure. Considering that the earlier news almost caused a heart attack or two, I'm just fine. What a relief to get back to work, when people aren't interrupting left and right to ask me about the latest update." His pen moved somewhat violently across the page. "Instead they're interrupting left and right to tell me about it."

Ginger held still for several seconds, turning this curious speech over in her mind.

"I - just wanted to make sure you knew." She sounded rather hurt at such a cool reception to the best news any of them could ask for. "Everyone else is practically dancing in the aisles." Which implied that anyone who cared for the President would do no less. Toby's devotion to their Chief Executive was never in doubt, so why didn't he want to join in? "You looked so depressed, I was afraid no one had mentioned it to you yet."

Slowly, Toby raised his head and propped it up with one hand. His face was a mask.

"Consider this a personality quirk. Some people draw closer together in a crisis. They feel better talking about it. Helps them deal with the stress. In the same way, it's natural to vent relief in celebration." His pause was more expressive than any public proclamation of soul-deep concern. "I've just never been that type."

She got the message. "Uh - right. Um... sorry to bother you."

He sighed. "I suppose I should show a little appreciation."

"No, that's okay. We'll try to leave you alone." Ginger backed away, as though unnerved by the incredulous revelation that Toby Ziegler actually had personal feelings. His reputation for gruff reserve in the worst tempest was firmly grounded around here.

Well, if you really wanted to tap the depths of the White House Communications Director, it looked like all you had to do was threaten the President of the United States.

Just before Ginger could get out of earshot he called out, "Hey, do you know where Sam is? I need him here."

"I - think he went out to pick up some supper."

Toby exhaled and returned to his paperwork. "One-track mind, that guy."

Sam staggered into the bullpen area with both arms loaded. "Vegetarian chow call!"

People swirled around him at once, laying claim to their individual orders, stripping his hands clean in moments.

"Hey, will someone at least save me a croissant - oh, never mind." Not even pausing to remove his trench coat, he fell into the nearest vacant chair.

"Aren't you hungry, Sam?" Cathy asked, digging into her own meal.

"Nah, I'm too tired to be hungry." His head fell back in exhaustion, leaving him to stare at the ceiling. "I knew I should've gone home earlier. I offer to pick up supper once, and now it's my job for life. There were so many orders, I didn't have the chance to get anything for myself. Sandwiches, subs, salads... Doesn't anyone around here want to share a pizza or something equally unnutritious?"

She laughed none too sympathetically. "It's a small price to pay. You wouldn't miss this for the world and you know it."

Coming up from behind, Mandy shook her head in feigned wonder. "Don't you find anything wrong with this picture? First, at the end of a long and hard day, no one wants to leave in case they miss a tragic bulletin; and now, at the start of another long and hard day, no one wants to leave in case they miss a party."

Cathy smiled at her. "Obviously you don't know how good a party can get around here."

"I've heard my share of rumors."

"Which explains why you're still here too, right?" Sam suggested, too worn out to guard his tongue more closely.

Mandy rounded on him sharply. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Seaborn?"

He closed his eyes, as if that would make the issue go away. "I definitely should have gone home."

"That's becoming more apparent by the minute."

CJ arrived just in time to throw water on the flash point. "But it's a doubly good thing you didn't, Sam."

He looked at her, eyes narrowing. "I'm not so exhausted that I've forgotten to be wary of sudden surprises around here."

"Those are the best kind. The Press Corps will be back within half an hour, which means you have been granted the singular privilege of helping me prepare one of the most joyous releases I'll ever give. Toby's looking for you even as we speak."

"Just what the sandman ordered." With an effort, Sam heaved himself up. "Isn't it great that the crisis is over. We speechwriters had begun to feel decidedly useless."

"Okay; the next time you feel overworked, we'll arrange another national emergency that doesn't require your services." CJ was all grins, and her sarcasm had resumed its normal lighthearted note. Presidential good news can do that.

"Fine. Anyone placing bets that some dictator will try to get away with a bit of subterfuge while the U.S. scrambles its hierarchy?" Sam's weariness was affecting his repertoire.

"That's assuming the U.S. hierarchy doesn't do the job itself," Josh announced darkly as he clomped past, yanking off his blazer in passage.

Sam, CJ and Mandy instantly gave him their full attention. Cathy understood to make herself scarce.

"What happened?" Sam asked first, leading the way after him, weariness a thing of the past. "Clearly your meeting with Hoynes wasn't a total delight - I'd have been amazed if it was - but a little more detail would be welcome."

Josh strode into his own office, where he flung his jacket at the coat rack with no real interest in actually hanging it there. And missed.

The Deputy Chief of Staff whirled to face his colleagues with a worried frown. "Get ready for some fireworks to rival the Fourth of July. The Cabinet voted Hoynes in; they could hardly do otherwise. And the man's blowing all his jets. Leo read him his rights, but I don't know how long that'll keep his ambitions under wraps - he sees this as his God-given opportunity to take full control." Josh exhaled. "All I can say is, if the President had to get involved in a Smash-up Derby, at least it was on Friday. We have one weekend of grace, and we're going to need every minute of it. The fun and games start Monday morning."

Everyone traded concerned glances. President Bartlet's administration had been refined into a surprisingly efficient political machine, stacked with people who worked together and trusted each other to say what they honestly believed. People who tried to focus on doing what was right, not just what was popular or expedient or even pressured by the powerful and the outspoken. People not afraid to tell their Commander-in-Chief when he was wrong.

Vice-President Hoynes, however, was not on the Bartlet bandwagon... and he seemed altogether too eager to tackle the job of President his way.

"He's had his eye on that leather chair from the word go," CJ admitted. Angrily.

"We're sitting on a powder keg," Mandy summarized. Succinctly.

Josh nodded. Grimly. "And only one person in the world can diffuse it."

Saturday.

The White House did not share the public sector's tradition of a more casual dress code on Fridays - not with diplomats, generals and presidents running around at any given moment. Besides, considering the number of times these employees worked weekends, a dress-down weekday would be somewhat redundant.

This weekend saw a full House indeed - at least as far as the senior staff was concerned.

"Yes, Congressman." Josh nodded into the phone receiver, not that the other party would see it anyway, but human habit dies hard. He was slouched in his chair, feet up on his desk. "I really appreciate it, sir. All right, I'll see you Monday."

He paused, rubbing his already-tousled hair as the other voice rambled on for a bit. "Well, to be honest, the only thing we know for sure is that there's been no change for the worse." Pause. "Sure, I'll pass on your good wishes the first chance I get. Yes, sir, thank you."

He hung up, looked around... and found Toby standing silently on his office threshold, hands in pockets, motionless and expressionless as ever.

"You like watching me work, don't you?" Josh grinned.

Toby did not. "Well, it's such a rare phenomenon."

The Deputy Chief of Staff let that one go. His interest diverted to their contrasting attire: Toby's dress shirt, dress pants and sports jacket to Josh's jeans, tank top and unbuttoned jersey.

"Don't you ever relax?" He waggled his propped-up sneakers in emphasis.

Toby was even less effusive today than his usual guarded self. "What?"

"Forget it." At least the Communications Director had foregone his tie; that was some progress.

"Have you spoken to Mercerie yet?"

"About ten minutes ago. He and Lockheed are on for Thursday." Josh lowered his feet and shuffled through a copious pile of notes. "The Bill 612 faction comes in Tuesday, Stratherney and Yorker have agreed to postpone until Friday, and Brock still has to let me know about tomorrow." He rubbed one ear. "My ear is ready to fall off from all this re-scheduling."

"Think of it instead as evidence of a productive time."

Josh leaned both elbows tiredly on his desk, looking as though he wanted to put his head right down. "Productivity is relative at this point. We're just trying to do as much as possible before Hoynes can screw it all up."

"We can always bill him for the overtime," Toby deadpanned.

"I wish." Josh paused. "You know, the most surprising thing about this is that everyone I've talked to sounds genuinely concerned about the President's condition."

"Naturally; it's a matter of survival. They know that if they don't show some sympathy, I'll be knocking on their doors." And there was no sarcasm behind those words at all.

Josh couldn't prevent another smile, if only a brief one. "That must be it. When you start your rounds, count me in."

"I'll consider it. What's your rate of successful contact?"

"Not bad, overall. Of course it helps when you know their home phone numbers."

Toby shifted in place for the first time. "I personally am convinced that the ELO is ignoring my calls. No federal lobby can be that dead, even on a Saturday."

Josh sat up straighter in blatant disbelief. "What - they don't want to talk to a sunny guy like you?"

"My reputation precedes me."

"Or else your number. Maybe they have Call Display."

"In that case -"

"Hey, don't look at me. I'm not making the call for you. Give me communists over lobbyists any day."

"Fine." Toby could not have appeared less interested in the political consequences. "Then the Governor can make his merry way out here from Iowa to discover that he's been stood up by the White House."

"Wouldn't be the first time, would it?"

Leo joined them at that moment. "Oh, Toby; good. You need to hear this, too."

Josh took one look at his boss's proper suit and tie, and just shook his head. But then, the Chief of Staff always had to set an example.

Toby noticed his reaction, and raised one eyebrow in vivid commentary.

Leo was blissfully unaware of this silent exchange. "Guys, I'll warn you now: don't schedule anything special for Monday."

Josh blinked. "Too late. I just did."

"Then you'd better unschedule it. I don't care what it is." Leo was quite serious.

"Oh, great." Josh rocked backwards so far that his chair creaked alarmingly. "As if we're not famous enough already for bumping meetings left and right."

"Trust me: on Monday tensions will be far too high to worry about anything else. I want you thinking about your work when you meet these guys, not about Hoynes." And on that note Leo departed, clearly with a lot else occupying his mind.

Toby did not leave. Josh studied him, wondering why.

"Well?"

"What?" Exactly like before.

"I could swear we've had this conversation already," Josh muttered. "Don't you now have calls to remake as well?"

The Communications Director just stood there and returned his look. "No."

Pause. "Let me guess: you already knew to leave Monday free."

Somehow Toby achieved the effect of a smug smile without the slightest twitch to his face. "Of course. Common sense."

Wearily, Josh reached again for his phone.

Sam had his phone receiver wedged under his jaw as he attempted to discuss one topic and enter something totally unrelated into his laptop at the same time. One learned early to divide one's attention in this workplace.

"Senator, I'm not trying to finagle anything. I'm being perfectly frank: the more you and I can get done over the phone right now, the better off both of us will be next week."

Pause. Computer keys clicked audibly in the quiet.

"Let me put it this way: would you have pushed for a financial conference here a year and a half ago when this administration was first getting its feet wet?" Pause. "Right. And the Vice-President will need his own getting-acquainted time."

Pause. He squinted at the laptop's screen, shifting mental gears in mid-stride.

"Okay, then. I'll call you back in a couple of hours." Pause. "Thank you, sir. I'll be sure to tell the President that you're pulling for him. We all are." Another pause, not for the same reason as the previous one. "Bye."

Abandoning both phone and keyboard, Sam rose, stretched, and poked his head outside his office. "Cathy?"

Instead of his assistant, Donna stepped into view. "She was drafted for a courier run. Luck of the draw when bodies are few. What do you need, Sam?"

He stared at her. She looked ready for a cruise, shorts and sleeveless print jersey and sandals together.

"So, when do you sail?"

She dimpled. "Well, I won't get to the Bahamas this year, but I can still dream. They always turn the air conditioning down on the weekend; it does a fair imitation of a balmy climate." She surveyed his black jeans, white T-shirt and cowboy boots. "So, where did you park your Harley?"

Sam rallied quickly. "In the First Lady's spot, of course. Say, isn't this your second weekend in a row or something?"

"Third - but who's counting?" Donna sounded resigned.

"I'd think Josh would've given you this one off on principle, especially when we consider what's coming."

Her smile returned. "I don't want him to think he can do without me for any length of time."

"Ah." Made perfect sense. "Listen, I - "

"Sam." Leo rounded a nearby corner. "Excuse me, Donna." She drew back discretely. "Sam, you're doing that subsidy meeting with Backwater, right?"

"I'm working on it. The senator's not a very happy camper right now. He hates being put off, for any reason."

"Stay on him." Leo handed over a file. "Wall Street's entered a tailspin. It should level out somewhat by day's end, but..."

"But it's not likely to climb again until the nation knows for sure that the President is still in one piece," Sam concluded gravely, opening the folder.

Leo's nod was every bit as grave. "That's not the primary reason why I want to see him in one piece again, but it is an added factor. The Chairman of the Fed just about had a stroke when he saw the opening numbers this morning."

"Which will echo through all the other banks both here and around the world." Sam whistled over the figures. "Talk about a dominoes effect."

He stopped to gaze into the distance. "You know, I've never really wanted to be President myself, and now I know why. Bad enough having to recover from a car crash without the whole planet going into hysterics as a result."

Leo grunted a depressed endorsement. "I hear you."

Sam paused again, this time to study his boss more closely.

"Leo, there is absolutely no doubt that he's going to be fine."

The Chief of Staff studied him somberly in return. "I wish I had your optimism."

"It's based on pure fact," Sam insisted with a straight face. "He knows all of us will never forgive him if he doesn't."

That earned the rueful grin he was after.

"You got that right." Leo nodded his gratitude, then reverted to business before he became any more demonstrative. "In the meantime, the last thing we need right now is panic on the Hill. Try to keep Backwater on an even keel, okay?"

"Oh, is that all? You should give me something difficult."

"Believe me, you have my sympathy," Leo muttered as he left.

Donna edged closer. Sam had apparently forgotten about her, nose to the financial report.

"Sam? Did you want something earlier?"

He glanced at her. And hesitated. "Well... I don't want to tie you up."

"Don't worry about it. Josh is closeted with his phone." She smirked. "And anything Cathy can do..."

Sam returned the expression. "Okay, you asked for it. I was just thinking how nice it would be for someone to bring me lunch for a change." And tried to look innocent as her face fell.

The entire surface of the good-sized conference table was covered with newspapers, as though the White House had entered into a massive recycling campaign.

Each paper bore a different name: some from American cities, some international.

Each paper bore the same date: today.

Each paper bore a headline in glaring black, all variations of the same subject.

Mandy sat alone, flanked by these untidy piles. Her casual attire looked to be the height of current fashion, as though she was a model moonlighting at the printer's shop. She focused intently on the heartbeat of the world, alternating between hard copy before her and electronic format on her laptop. The White House could hardly be on every paper's mailing list - there were way too many in the States alone. Fortunately the Internet helped make up the difference, as well as providing translations where needed.

At some point to the day Leo strode in. "Mandy?"

"Do you believe this?" she demanded at once, without waiting to hear what he wanted, and rotated the laptop his way. The banner on its screen declared, "BARTLET KILLED IN CAR CRASH".

He went very still, almost hypnotized by that message. His voice dropped to a whisper. "And it could so easily have been true."

After a moment Mandy realized this and deliberately swiveled her laptop around again, hiding the words and breaking the spell. Leo shuddered, throwing off the effect.

"And I doubt that's the only one, too." He surveyed the litter on all sides.

She resumed her scrolling. "Wouldn't surprise me, either. There's hardly a breath of any other news on the airwaves in any language. And some of the inaccuracies are laughable, ranging from heart failure to paraplegia. Talk about jumping to conclusions! Does it never occur to them to confirm the facts before publishing? Oh, and you don't want to know how many people are convinced this was an assassination attempt, not an accident at all."

"Anything to improve the situation." Leo pocketed both hands with an air of bracing for impact. "A few of our non-allies oversees seem inordinately excited right now."

"I noticed that too." Mandy cast a very serious eye his way. "They're not going to believe anything less than seeing the President for themselves, in living color. The more we insist he's alive, the more they'll doubt it."

"At this very moment, catering to diplomatic paranoia is low on my list of interests. The President should convalesce a bit before we drive him in front of the cameras." Leo checked his watch. "Still, I'd like you to attend the NSC meeting at three; a PR viewpoint could be valuable. Perception is four-fifths the battle right now."

That invitation came as a clear surprise. Independent political operators did not normally take part in security issues. Clearly Leo wanted all the help he could get on diffusing what had become a multinational time-bomb. "Right, I'll be there."

"Good." Leo paused. "Hoynes will meet with the Joint Chiefs early next week. Surely that'll be enough to hold the world together."

Mandy's lips pursed. "Here's hoping the world knows Hoynes as well as we do. If so, we won't have a thing to worry about. Compared to the President, he's positively trigger-happy."

"In more ways than one." And something echoed ominously in that brief phrase.

Leo was almost out the door when she looked up once more. "Say, where's our favorite limo-wrecker been all this time?"

"Hopefully on bread and water," the Chief of Staff growled as he strode into the hall. No further words were needed to express his simmering opinion on that topic.

"Here, here." And Mandy went back to work.

When CJ walked into reception outside the Oval Office, she caught the tail end of Mrs. Landingham's phone conversation.

"Thank you, Madam Ambassador. I'll see that the President gets your message at the earliest opportunity. I know he will appreciate it."

The Press Secretary waited until the call was over and the note-taking complete before she approached. "Happy Saturday, Mrs. Landingham. For some reason I'm not at all surprised to find you here."

Not only here, but looking as fresh and proper as every other day, bar none. Anything else would have seemed positively unnatural.

"I'll take that as a compliment." Mrs. Landingham paused to study the dark, form-fitting outfit that emphasized CJ's height and contrasted well against her auburn hair. "You know, you really are too slim for your own good."

No one else around here would dare a comment like that. But CJ appreciated the thought. True, her narrow build was somewhat less evident under a suit. "I was overweight as a child; this is by far the better alternative. Now I burn calories through sheer nervous energy." She glanced at the neat stack of messages, a stack almost two inches thick. "Offhand, I'd say you're no less busy than the rest of us."

"Expressions of concern are pouring in from around the globe."

For a moment CJ just stared. "Wow. That's really kind of them. Imagine having kings and queens worried about your health." She found the idea slightly mind-boggling.

"The President is a citizen of the world theater." And no doubt Mrs. Landingham had ferried messages from many of those fellow "world citizens" before this; her own career in the White House was far longer than any presidential term.

"Funny how I can forget that." CJ shook her head in bemusement. "Oh, have you seen Leo recently?"

"Not in the last few minutes. He seems to be... on the move today."

"So I gathered. Trying to wrap up as many loose ends as possible in the short span of normal time we have, no doubt - "

Leo walked in just then. "CJ, there you are."

She grinned. "Well, speak of the devil and he pops right up."

"I doubt he's ever had a more hectic day than I am right now," Leo countered. He did look a bit harried, and more than a bit tired.

"Playing 'Beat the Clock', are we?"

"Someone else can be the contestant next time. There just aren't enough hours in the day. Have you seen the headlines?"

"Oh, yeah." The Press Secretary shook her head. "Don't worry, I'll straighten them out this afternoon."

"And fast - before someone starts predicting the Apocalypse or the President's resurrection." The Chief of Staff exhaled wearily. "What's the latest?"

"Walter Reed is under siege. There must be a reporter from every paper and station in the country, not to mention every foreign correspondent around." CJ raised her hands in wonder. "I wouldn't have thought that many hotel rooms existed in all of DC."

Leo massaged an aching temple. "We really shouldn't have expected otherwise. We're bringing the President home the moment he's well enough to move. At least here a sufficient level of security is already in place."

"Good! Then we can mob him."

"I'll second that." He looked down. "No medical report can equal the evidence of your own eyes."

Silence fell. Every step through these vibrating halls and every measure taken to smooth out the business of the nation only served to remind them - Leo most of all - that their leader wasn't here... and why.

Gently, CJ touched his arm in whole-hearted agreement. He glanced at her, clearly welcoming the support.

"Mr. McGarry?" Mrs. Landingham spoke up quietly after another moment.

Both turned. She extended the stack of messages.

"The latest installment?" Leo accepted them with a nod and a sigh. "At least something can still put the fine art of political back-stabbing on hold. Thanks, Mrs. Landingham. CJ, I'll get back to you." And without further adieu he headed for his office.

CJ watched him go. "For some of us, this day can't end soon enough," she mused. And glanced around again, to meet the presidential secretary's knowing eye.

Sunday, 11:30 A.M.

When the ambulance pulled up at the White House front gate, escorted fore and aft exactly as the President's limousine had been, reporters and public flocked to the fence line outside in droves, while staff members surged to the windows inside.

"Toby, come on!" Bonnie called in passing. "He's here! You don't want to miss this!"

About to enter his office, the Communications Director rotated in exasperation. "Oh, I don't, huh? Of course, I forgot I don't have any say in what I do and do not want to miss." More employees joined the general tide past him. "So you won't believe the hospital staff, the White House Chief of Staff or the United States Secret Service that he's alive until you see for yourself? Try to have a little faith, people!"

Sam paused on his own way past. "You're kidding, right? Faith in government?"

Toby raised his eyes to implore strength from heaven. "Great. Now you've got me worried." And he tagged along, though with rather low enthusiasm - or so it seemed.

The center of the main reception hall had, of course, been cleared. On both sides, however, it swarmed dark with people several bodies deep. The parallel to the spectators outside the Dupont was almost exact... save for the fact that here there were no police barriers. No one intended to press too close. They all knew better.

"When was the last time this forum was so crowded?" Mandy wondered.

Josh craned his neck. "Probably when Marilyn came to perform for Kennedy."

"From the way the crowds are building outside, you'd think both of them are expected to be here as well."

"I thought they chose Sunday because it's the quietest day of the week and the Secret Service wanted the least amount of fuss," Donna put in.

"Since when has a White House prediction been accurate?" her boss riposted.

Mandy smirked at the pair of them. "You don't seriously think everyone showed up just to work today, do you?"

"I don't know about you, but I gave up watching the ball game for this," Josh informed her, as though he'd been dragged here against his will.

Donna cast a critical eye over his rumpled sweatshirt, beside her sharp-cut dress. "Well, after such a noble sacrifice on your part, I'm sure you won't be impressed by the fact that I had to leave my church service early to get here in time."

"I admire your priorities, and I'll make sure the President knows as well," Josh promised with a grin, then winced as her fist made contact with his arm.

Elsewhere in the crowd, CJ peered over other heads from her superior height. "This is like Union Station."

"Hey, we could pull rank for front-row spots," Sam suggested.

"Give the man some time alone at home, will you?" Toby muttered. "Then we'll rush him."

"Our President is a workaholic." As if any of the senior staff actually needed the reminder. "He's going to want a status report at some point. You know: How stands the Union?"

"He's supposed to give the State of the Union, Sam; not receive it."

"In this case he'd probably make an exception."

CJ intervened between them. "Guys, if we're going to work him to death, at least let's wait until a bit closer to the end of his term, okay?"

Toby shrugged, as though it all were a matter of no importance. "If we can't keep the country functioning without the direct help of its Commander-in-Chief for one more day, then our chances of overthrowing this government are better than I ever dreamed."

Right then, the tall doors of the Grand Entrance started to open. At once every voice stilled and every face turned.

Leo appeared first. As business-like in appearance as ever - in large part because he had the honor of welcoming the President home. Now leading the procession inside, he paused to survey the eager gathering. And cleared his throat, loudly and pointedly.

Of one accord, every person straightened to attention. The last whisper of movement faded, and the quiet in that huge and crowded atrium was electrifying.

As a procession it shamed anything short of full state honors. First, the black-suited Secret Service agents, still on guard even here. Then the hospital technicians, carrying or propelling a substantial and distressing assortment of medical equipment. Then the doctor and his immediate staff, some of them casting responsible glances over their shoulders as they walked along, others darting fascinated glances at their surroundings.

Their charge occupied a standard hospital gurney, propelled with care by orderlies from front and rear. His upper torso had been elevated to something like forty-five degrees, suggesting less critical health than a fully supine position. Even so, he was blanketed, and strapped down, and a thick white bandage encircled his forehead as though literally holding the skull together.

His features were quite recognizable... despite the bruises, the abrasions, and the rubber tubes running from his nose and mouth to a portable oxygen tank.

On one side walked the President's wife. On the other side walked the President's youngest daughter. Behind walked the President's personal aide. Bringing up the tail was the second installment of security.

Without a word or a smile, they paraded between eerily still walls to right and left. The waves of relief and of concern were not, after all, for them.

Despite everything - gentle movement, squeak of wheels, soft footfalls, tangible emotion in the air - the President's eyes remained closed.

Not one among the spectators spoke. Not a sound broke the peculiar quiet. Not a body shuffled for position; only their heads and eyes moved in respective silence. To a person they were content just to watch him return. To know that he was in good hands.

To know that he was alive.

Leo called the senior staff together early that evening, for a long-awaited announcement.

"I've got the invitation."

"He's awake!" Mandy exclaimed first.

"Yes. It's looking like the doctors may have underestimated the effect that the White House has on the President's recuperative abilities."

"I'm sure they feel bad about being so off the mark." CJ was usually the first among them to disguise stress with sarcasm.

"Offhand, I'd say they're hoping for more of the same," Sam put in. Clearly he was.

"How are you doing, Leo?" Josh asked, quietly.

All eyes focused even more closely on their Chief of Staff.

Leo seemed caught between new delight and old apprehension. The next few minutes would answer the final, all-pervading question about their leader's mental well-being.

"Ask me when I get back. I'm off to the Residence now." He hesitated. "You can wait around if you want, since I doubt this'll be a lengthy visit."

"Well, we've lasted this long..." Sam mused, as though each of them hadn't delayed their departure all afternoon for that very reason.

"Fine." Leo patted the thick file folder in his hands. "And, assuming the President's up to it, I'll relay your personal reports. But we probably won't get around to discussing Hoynes. I don't want to exhaust him more than I must."

Toby frowned. "You may not want to even mention his replacement. He has to be on some kind of painkiller."

No one else commented aloud, but several knowing looks circulated the room. Most of them knew firsthand the disorientation that too much prescribed pain relief could cause in their Chief Executive. The President himself had used the term "goofy", and it was accurate.

Leo rolled his eyes at the memory.

"Medication notwithstanding, Leo, I'm sure you'll be able to tell." CJ sounded like she wanted to be very sure of that. "You'll know if he's still... himself."

He nodded uneasily, hoping the very same thing. All the reassurances of the President's improving physical condition had been overshadowed by that lurking terror of permanent mental disability. Not until Leo knew for sure that his old friend's abused brain could still function at its previous brilliant and witty speed would he be able to truly relax and leave his part of this nightmare behind.

"If his sense of humor's intact, that'll be a good sign. And I can quiz him on some shared memories. But the math test will be beyond my..."

His words drifted to a troubled stop. Jed Bartlet held a Nobel Prize in Economics. Would he ever rise to that level again? Or would this gifted mind be horribly crippled, this sparkling personality forever changed?

Suddenly Leo had to lighten the mood, before his panic took over. "And just to be sure, I'll check for any hint of possible impersonation." And was rewarded by a few smiles. "Then again, if an imposter can fool the First Lady, what chance does a mere best friend have?"

And everyone rose to the occasion.

"Don't forget, he's right-handed except when he throws things."

"He likes double cream in his coffee."

"He's forever losing his glasses."

"And he roots for the Celtics."

Leo threw up one hand in mild disbelief. "Ah, the benefits of living in the public spotlight. Is nothing secret?"

The hallways of the Residence were, as always, under observation by the Secret Service. The door to the President's sick room, however, boasted two special sentries. Leo smiled as he came upon Charlie Young, the President's personal aide, and Zoey Bartlet, the President's youngest daughter, seated side by side and chatting quietly together.

Both broke off when they saw him coming, and rose.

"Hi, Leo," Zoey said first. Charlie still stumbled over addressing the White House Chief of Staff by his first name, so he just nodded.

"Hey, kids. I see the President's perfectly safe, since you two are on hand." Leo placed an avuncular hand on one shoulder each. "How are you holding out?"

They exchanged a glance, then shrugged in unison. As if coordinating their responses.

"Not too bad," Charlie said at last.

"Good to be home," Zoey added.

Leo didn't read anything into this hint of collusion. These youngsters were dating, and clearly welcomed each other's support at such a time. Nothing more natural. "I'll bet. But if I were you, I'd enjoy the break. He'll be ordering all of us around again before we know it."

"Right," Zoey agreed with a smile. "Uh, my dad's asked for you."

"Yeah, I heard."

Leo paused; he couldn't completely ignore the seriousness. This was the first time he'd seen his best friend's little girl all weekend. She appeared to be handling everything fairly well, but no one passes through this kind of trauma unscathed. Her smile was a bit too broad, as though she were trying to convince herself as much as him.

"Zoey... he's going to be fine." And that was a vow.

Her smile widened some more, no doubt struggling to believe. "I know."

"All right." Leo squeezed her arm, and then turned to the closed door.

Drew an extra breath.

And entered.

The first thing that immediately became apparent was the stillness. Shutting the door, Leo just stood there and experienced it. He could hear the hum and beep of the several medical devices present, but somehow they didn't quite overcome the pervading quiet, the sense of life suspended that could not possibly be normal.

And then he noticed the air. Not rich and sweet, the way the White House breathed history, but tainted with decontaminates and the specter of a slow and painful death.

The occupant of the bed did not react to this new presence. The room's bright lighting, at odds with normal sleep patterns, had no apparent effect either. Eyes closed, breathing regular. The only motion at all was the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

Softly, fearfully, Leo approached. Taking in the heart monitor, the blood pressure reading, the intravenous drip. The oxygen tube that maintained and monitored breathing. The thick blue pajamas that preserved body warmth. The white wrap around the head, the splinted left arm resting on top of the covers, the angry abrasions across one cheekbone, the ugly bruising about one eye. No other bandages could be seen, but he knew they were there...

The Chief of Staff looked down at Jed Bartlet's familiar features, utterly expressionless in sleep, and did not move himself. Wanting dearly to address his President. Wanting desperately to speak to his old friend. But certainly not wanting to disturb a rest that was so important for an anxiously-awaited recovery -

"Don't wake him."

Leo spun around so fast he almost lost his balance.

The well-known voice should have been warning enough. But he still wasn't prepared for the sight of Jed Bartlet's familiar features confronting him from the left, six feet away.

At the same time.

The President of the United States. Casually dressed. Up and about and uninjured.

"WHAT -" The White House Chief of Staff seemed to be saying that a lot lately.

"Shh! Keep it down. The poor guy needs his sleep."

Leo looked quickly back at the President sleeping, and back again at the President standing. Eyes wide, brows pinched and mouth open in sheer disbelief. This didn't quite surpass the shock of first hearing about the accident forty-eight hours ago, but it sure ran a close second.

Best friends don't put each other through such stress. And best friends these two had been for most of their lives. The second Bartlet wasn't quite smiling... still, a roguish glint in his eye suggested that he wanted to enjoy this vivid reaction for one moment at least.

That in itself was enough to prove to Leo which one was the real thing.

Slowly, his battered emotions began to make sense of all this, his stunned mind arrived at the obvious conclusion... and his expression settled into rather grim planes for a man who'd just learned that his old friend and, incidentally, his Commander-in-Chief, wasn't in peril of life and identity after all. He was just fine.

All that frantic worry, all that mental anguish, had been spent on the wrong man.

Just as slowly, Leo turned from the bed and straightened to his full height.

"Well, considering what the Presidency's going through, I'd say we all could use a restful night right about now."

The President looked puzzled. "Is this all the joyous welcome I get?"

He didn't get a smile, either. "Since you're not the one lying at death's threshold or courting mental incapacitation, I don't think it's deserving. You used an impersonator." Leo's voice rose in accusation at what he and countless others had been subjected to. "The man who swore he'd never deceive the American people is using a stunt double."

"Not 'is using', Leo. Once. Never before - and so help me God, never again."

"Which, of course, makes it all right. So there aren't any other President Bartlets running around here? How reassuring."

One essential aspect to old friendships is their level of absolute honesty. Few people had the audacity to reprimand a president of any country. Not that it happened often here, but Leo never hesitated to sound the conscience of their partnership when he felt it justified.

He set the folder of staff summaries down on the end table sharply, his anger visible and building. "Well, you're obviously going to have more time and energy to read these reports than any of us dared hope."

Another aspect to old friendships was the element of trust. Also, if a President can't trust his Chief of Staff, then he can't do his job.

This Chief of Staff chose not to strike that rather low blow. His feelings of hurt and injustice were counterbalanced by a surging relief. Besides, in all fairness he could see the difficulties in informing him any earlier than this without letting more people in on it. And the more minds, the more mouths.

Nevertheless, he had a job to do... and a Chief Executive to straighten out. Joy vied with outrage, back and forth. He walked over until they stood face to face, sparing the man in the bed this confrontation. "So, may I ask what was the critical matter that has resulted in you breaking your word and the entire country hanging on the edge of its seat, afraid that its President may not return to office, may not even live out the week?"

Nobody's perfect. If a mistake on his part could be proven, Jed Bartlet acceded. When he knew he was wrong, he didn't try to deny it.

Now, after a telling pause, he exhaled guiltily.

"You knew that Zoey made the honor roll in college this semester."

The recollection took a moment; academic excellence, even by the President's daughter, had taken a back seat of late. "I thought you'd resigned yourself to the fact that you couldn't make the honors ceremony. Not with that ACLU speech on the same evening."

"I thought I had, too." The President's tone was bitter. "Resigned myself to missing one of the highlights in my daughter's life. Resigned myself to her disappointment that my job wouldn't let me be there with her." His gaze wandered towards the bed. "And then Ron Butterfield told me about Tyler here."

Leo looked, too. The other President did not react, sleeping peacefully.

"He's a Canadian on contract computer work. Ron's security team ran across him quite by accident about a month ago in Syracuse. Last week, when I was bemoaning the injustice of my schedule and wishing I could get out of it gracefully, he mentioned the resemblance."

"And you jumped at the chance."

Bartlet glowered. "Hell, no. It took me two days to decide, two days to convince myself that just this once it would be worth the deception. And then another two days to arrange everything. Tyler Preston is half my age, but he looks so much like I did thirty years ago it's scary." The President shrugged. "A little make-up and some coaching, and he was all set to negotiate the hotel, shake some hands, walk outside and wave. The inaccessible public figure everyone expects to be on display, while I shared a personal moment with my family as I hardly ever get to do anymore. Now how dishonest is that?"

Leo shook his head. "Considering how things have snowballed of late, I'd better not answer." But he didn't press it; who could have anticipated such a fluke as a drunk driver at the one wrong spot and the one wrong moment? "So you ducked out the back door the second your speech was done and sped over to the college campus, right?"

"Ron had an unmarked car ready, and Zoey's part of the ceremony was at the very end. They took me straight backstage without anyone else knowing, and I got a beautiful view of the presentation."

Leo was starting to thaw. He understood a father's feelings.

"Did Zoey know?" There would have been far less purpose to all this otherwise.

Bartlet nodded in full agreement to that unvoiced thought. "Yes. So did Abbey; she was in the front row." He turned aside, his face creasing into a grin and his vision soft with the memory. "That was an amazing moment, Leo. My baby girl standing before the Dean and the entire faculty, trying not to sneak too many glances at me. I was just bursting with pride. I wouldn't have missed it for..." Then he came to himself, and stopped short of completing that expected phrase. In light of everything that had happened, it sounded terribly cliché right now.

"The world?" his old friend offered quietly. "Or just the country?"

He looked down. "Yeah, really." And sighed. "We'd all met privately afterwards, backstage, when the call came through about the accident. And that meant we had to take off in different directions, at once." He looked up again, his gaze smoldering. "It's not enough that we can't be together in a moment of triumph; we can't even be together in a crisis."

"It's the price we pay -"

"I know, I know." A wave dismissed the tired old rhetoric.

Leo took a deep breath. "At least Abbey and Zoey never believed for a moment that it was true."

"I wouldn't have lived with that. I'm having a hard enough time living with the rest." The President didn't - couldn't? - meet his eyes this time. "Dammit, Leo, I've always played straight with our staff and with the public. But for this incredible sequence of events, I would've just gone home with my family, Tyler would have been whisked away to his hotel, and no one else would have ever known. Either way, I'd already promised myself I would never stoop to that level again."

Leo conceded the general issue. "Well, we don't expect your limo to be sideswiped every other day. Still, as I'm sure you know, the country went through one hell of a night."

Bartlet's exhalation was explosive. "And I can't change that, however dearly I'd like to. I'll just have to make it up as best I can."

For a moment the outrage flared anew. "MAKE IT UP? How do you undo the anxiety and the fear already experienced? Do you have any idea just how worried we've all been?"

He rose to the challenge. "As a matter of fact, I do. I found out this very afternoon. In the main foyer. In spades."

That made Leo gape. "You were there?"

"Not in person. I've been hiding in my own House all weekend. But one of the staff had a camcorder, and the Service managed to sneak me a copy of the video. I had a better view than Tyler himself would have."

The President raised his eyes to the ceiling. "I saw all of you. And I couldn't believe it. You hear about people who've had near-death experiences - but this was revelation of a different kind. There's just no way to describe what I felt. Everyone was there solely because they're worried about me. What have I ever done to deserve such affection?"

The Chief of Staff did not answer right away. Hearing all too clearly how amazed and touched his boss had been. That was a memory to lock away in one's heart forever.

But his boss still had some music to face...

"You don't want to know how worried I was."

"Yes, I do -"

Leo brushed him off, fighting the memories. "First that you weren't going to live through this at all, and then wondering if you were ever going to be right in the head again. And your office had nothing to do with - "

"I know, Leo." The President gripped his friend's shoulder, willing him to listen. "I just asked myself how I'd have felt... if that had been you."

And that simple, meaningful statement brought his friend to a standstill.

Then Bartlet hung his head, clearly remorseful. "But there was no safe way that I could tell you before tonight. Everyone who knew was either at Walter Reed the whole time or else guarding the door to my cell here. We didn't dare risk a phone call. And if any of them had dropped by to see you in private, or if you'd been invited to the Residence before this evening, people would have known something was up. Even Abbey and Zoey couldn't leave the hospital until today."

The short distance between them filled with empathy to a painful level.

Finally, Leo nodded. "I understand."

And he did.

"Are you going to forgive me anytime soon?" That quiet petition was almost a plea for mercy.

"Oh, probably at some point." Leo didn't really want to just yet.

The President's famous (or infamous) humor was incapable of being suppressed for long. "Well, the next time I start to doubt my value around here, I'll know what to do. That may be a rather brutal method to ferret out one's supporters, but it is effective."

"Right on both counts." And the two men shared a grin at last.

Bartlet moved a few steps away. "Anyway, it was only right for Tyler to receive some of that sympathy himself, considering everything he's been through."

"Agreed. So how bad is his condition?" Leo asked. "I'm betting the official catalog of aches and pains has been downplayed somewhat," he added shrewdly.

The President confirmed his evaluation with a grave nod. "Yeah, it's not that good. But he'll recover eventually. It'll just take longer for him than it will for me. The paramedics made their own preliminary, and of course the hospital trauma staff had to know what they were treating. Doctor Nickels' report minimized that as much as possible without being unrealistic. You know, so as not to raise any suspicions when I stage a very rapid recovery. I don't want to hold up the nation's business more than I must."

Leo humphed. "Right, can't have that. I suppose we should be grateful Tyler didn't die at the scene. That comeback would be a bit harder to explain."

He got a sour look in return. "Back off, Leo. I'm blaming myself enough as it is."

"I sure hope so."

A pause settled between them.

"Who else knows?"

"Just Ron, two of his best people, Doc Nickels, and Admiral Hackett, who had to be called in anyway. Charlie was in on it from the start, just in case Tyler ran into some kind of glitch we hadn't foreseen."

"Uh-huh. Now I get the real reason why you insisted on the junior staff carrying the ball Friday night."

"Exactly. Even just for the walk outside, you guys would've known that wasn't me."

Leo folded his arms and said nothing. His silence, however, was most articulate.

Bartlet got the message. "All right, already. I hate the very thought that people have been worried about me all this time. But you know even better than I do that this building leaks like a sieve. The only way to nail the lid down so tight that the press never finds out is to keep it from the staff, too." Another sigh. "Even our closest people."

The reference to "our" staff is generally unusual for a president... and clearly indicative of the tight-knit partnership behind this President and his right-hand man.

Which only further increased Bartlet's pain at lying to his best advisors - who had also become his friends.

Leo nodded, not so much in consensus as in making the point. "Now you know why you always hated the idea of a double in the first place."

The President waved one hand in acknowledgement. "Touché."

The Chief of Staff was watching him closely. "Why tell even me?"

Bartlet spun on him. Wounded and smarting. "Do you honestly have to ask that?"

Leo waited one calculated heartbeat. "No." And another, to let it sink all the way in. "Just... evening the score a bit."

After a moment, his Commander-in-Chief looked away. "Fine. I deserved that."

"That's for sure. On top of everything else, I was worried that the MS might complicate things even more." Leo closed his eyes, as though that would shut out the images in his mind. "If I hadn't known that Abbey was right there within minutes, I don't know what I would've done. Told somebody."

Still gazing to one side, the President winced ever so slightly.

"Is anyone else around here aware of that minor medical detail?" Leo asked in a gentler tone, sensitive to the delicacy of this particular topic.

Bartlet's hesitation proclaimed how much he hated to admit that his wish for privacy was endangering his life, hated to discuss this chink in his