I had been haunting the corridor outside of Bill's cubicle--only habit. There was nothing particularly amiss and to hear Bill tell it, he had stitched up worse on his own. No, I hovered by the curtain surrounding his bed because I knew where he was.

I poked my head through the curtain. He was lying on his side while the doctor stitched his thigh. He watched me with glittering eyes.

I removed my head.

I heard the peeping of a cellular--oops--digital phone. Christ! Shit! I burst into the cubicle, heedless of the nurse or the doctor. Bill had the phone to his ear already.

I snatched the tiny instrument from his hand, and realized that I had stunned him past response. He recovered rapidly. Bill stretched out the same hand, looked impatient.

I backed away, put the phone to my own ear.

It was the same voice as before, when they'd tried to send him out with cracked ribs, so it was plain what was coming.

The phone went dead in my hands.

I stuffed the thing into my jacket pocket.

I was enraged by this point.

Son… yeah. I was only guessing, but I had a pretty solid track record.

I closed my mouth. His tone was acid, and I figured I didn't need to push it anymore. A few slow, agonizing minutes in silence passed, then the doctor was finished. He applied a bandage, and Bill got to his feet. When he turned, I glimpsed his back. Dark, ominous bruises across his shoulder blades and neck were starting to turn purple. There was no way he was getting access to that phone anytime soon. I turned on my heel and stalked out of the treatment area.

There was nothing tentative about his tone.

I whipped around and nearly knocked him on his ass.

He stared down at me. I waited for him to tear my head off. He could have done it quite easily.

Bill hobbled past me, his face as impassive as marble. He didn't say ten things to me for an entire week. A bad leg was nothing to him up against wounded pride, but I knew he'd come around. He always did, eventually.

I came in from an extremely raucous night at the Corner to find him on the phone. He waved me out but I refused to move. If it were someone trying to get him to go out I'd tie him down.

Bill punched the disconnect button, sighed heavily, stared into the middle distance. At length, and slowly, he folded the cellphone and slipped it into its place in his pocket.

I found my legs unwilling to support me, so I continued to sit, utterly mystified. Suit? Washington? Me? What in hell was he on about?

Bill smiled coldly.

Whatever that was. Finally I was able to rise, to pack extra jeans and underthings in a conventional suitcase as opposed to his mangled seabag, to add some of my own belongings. His suit, which bore an Armani label, was so unused as to still have the sales receipt stuffed into the jacket pocket. There was no need to try to have it pressed.

He went to sleep immediately upon getting aboard the airplane. God knew where he was used to flying, but his comfort level on an aircraft was undeniable. I fought down the same shapeless dread I'd been feeling all along, tried and failed to read a book, tried and failed to sleep, and I ended up watching him sleep. I drew a funny measure of comfort from his relaxation and his nearness.

Staring at him, I came to the alarming realization that he had no shoes. Boots, yes. But they were dirty, worn Red Wings, work boots, hardly suitable to wear with a suit. I nudged him.

He shrugged and I sighed in frustration.

It took some prodding and cajoling, but I finally dragged him to a shoe shop when we hit D.C. I conned him into a sharp pair of black Italian loafers and black socks before he hauled me out. Although he hated it, it was great fun dressing him.

The Armani was black, double breasted, and when he put it on, he looked like an ambassador. I didn't dare say so. He would probably have taken it off immediately. He had managed to come up with a white on white silk shirt, from someplace, I had no idea where. For some reason I found myself comparing his to the ugly-ass red power ties Tom always wore. This tie was black silk, shot through with silver accents. He took a white silk handkerchief and it looked for a moment like he wanted to arrange it in the breast pocket of the jacket. Then he made a face and stuffed it in the pocket of his pants. He had apparently reached his limit. I took a look at this and had to sit down. I felt like a resident of an appliance box over a heating vent by comparison.

He grinned wolfishly and I passed a hand over his chin.

I punched him lightly in the shoulder.

Bill flashed me an evil look and I knew that I'd have to settle for one small victory.

I sat uneasily in the outer office of someone, I presumed Casey Ryback. A plank-faced secretary worked impassively at a computer terminal, seemingly deaf to the ruckus going on behind the door. Bill and Ryback were having a very loud and acrimonious discussion.

He stumbled over the phrase and I smiled at my hands despite my general disquiet. Poor Bill.

There was an agonizing stretch where nothing was said, and then, just when I was going to ask for the ladies' room to break the silence, several soberly-suited, Ray-banned individuals burst through the outer door. The secretary glanced up, then went back to her typing. I nearly fainted.

Four sets of eyes locked on me and hands went to concealed holsters.

One of the suits thumbed a walkie talkie.

Cheeseburger?

The inner office door opened and Bill stuck his head out, black eyes sweeping the collection.

He sounded bored, annoyed.

My hand was engulfed and I was pulled through the door. Now I wouldn't be finding out who Cheeseburger was and, at the moment, I was more interested in that. I had no fear of Ryback. Bill would deal with Ryback.

Bill's voice was flat and Ryback's was equally so.

Ryback was derisive.

Fierce protectiveness. The man who hadn't wanted a family was now ready to do battle to keep it.

The secretary might have been reporting the arrival of a pizza.

The door opened, suits and Ray-bans tumbled in.

The radio crackled.

A tall man with neatly razor-cut grey hair, a folksy grin and an instantly familiar voice came through the door.

I shrank behind Bill. Was I to be part of a larger disagreement refereed by The President himself? This was too much.

Bill's voice was absent.

Ryback shut his stunned mouth with an audible click.

He stumbled again. It was obviously hard for him to make such a decision, and he looked halfway like he was ready to call off all bets, but he forged on. I didn't envy him.

The president was nonplused.

Ryback forced his mouth open.

He looked around the room, from Ryback, to me, to Bill.

Every eye in the room fell on Ryback.

I winced. Ryback seemed a little too quick to the jump with his answer.

Bill sounded tired, frustrated, and above all, perturbed.

Ryback nodded curtly.

Ryback's eyes slid to me. Did this mean what I thought, I'd be going home without Bill???

Bill glared at Ryback, then took me by the arm and led me out into the hallway.

Bill's eyes softened, and his voice lowered a notch.

We were interrupted by the door to Ryback's office opening. Out spilled Secret Service goons spouting "all clear for Cheeseburger," and then the man himself appeared.

Bill stopped in mid-handshake and grinned.

He nearly choked.

I was stunned. Bill elbowed me, and I managed,

Jesus Christ!

Fucker! Landing this on me in front of the President, when I'm tongue tied. I could have strangled him.

Bill covered both of my hands with one of his for the briefest of moments, then slipped into Ryback's office. I was left alone with the President of the United States, a queasy stomach, and one of the worst cases of "I have a bad feeling about this" that I'd ever had.

The president handed me a slim, black cellphone, exactly like the one that Bill always carried. He had me unfold it, and I did, with shaking hands.

He raised an eyebrow when I didn't respond.

He smiled.

I was stuttering badly, barely holding it together. I felt a warmth on my shoulder and looked up to find a presidential hand resting there.

I took a deep breath. There was more to this than there seemed to be.