“The people of Minnesota are morons.”

Sam freezes outside the conference room, grabs Josh’s arm. “Who is that?”

Josh shrugs and tries to continue walking, but Sam has his arm and isn’t moving.

“And here are the reasons why the people of Minnesota are morons. In no particular order; just as they’re, kind of, coming to me.”

“We have to go in, Sam,” Josh protests. “Leo’s in there.”

“Number one: they put a professional wrestler in the governor’s mansion.”

“I don’t care if the ghost of Arthur Miller is in there, Josh; I’m not going to stand in the same room as—“

“Number two: they had the chance to elect a descendent of Hubert Humphrey as their governor, and they chose a professional wrestler instead.”

Sam waves his hand. “—that.”

“Number three: a professional wrestler told them that he would make a good governor - and they believed him.”

Josh reasserts and reinforces his hold on Sam’s wrist and hauls him forward. “Arthur Miller isn’t dead.” He breezes into the conference room with Sam in tow and says, “Could be worse – could be South Dakota.”

There are two men in the room. One is bald, bearded, irritated and exhausted. He looks the newcomers over, and Sam, despite the hokiness of the metaphor, thinks of a lepidopterist with a new magnifying glass. “Do I know you?”

The other man is small, sandy-haired and sharp-eyed, and looks like he’s long accustomed to suffering. He pushes away from the table. “Toby, you met Josh Lyman. In Nashua.”

Toby rubs his hand over a part of his head where Sam imagines he’d really like for there to be hair. “Nashua. Right.” He has no memory of the meeting; of this Sam is certain.

The man who has to be Leo looks at Sam. “You’re Sam?”

Sam nods and shakes his hand. “Sam Seaborn. Nice to meet you.”

“Leo McGarry. You, too. That’s Toby Ziegler.”

“Sam Seaborn,” says Toby. “If your middle name starts with ‘S,’ too, I may have to consider suicide.”

Sam blinks. “It’s Norman,” he replies automatically, not yet recovered enough from the newness or the fear to realize that he doesn’t have to answer Toby’s non-questions.

Toby considers him through narrowed eyes. Sam can’t imagine what he sees. Toby says, “I’m sorry. Maybe you should consider suicide.”

Sam wants to laugh. He’s just not sure if Toby meant it to be a joke.

Toby looks at Josh. “What’s worse about South Dakota?”

“About a mile inside the Minnesota/South Dakota state line,” Josh says, leaning against the door jamb, “if you come in I-90, there’s a billboard that says something like, ‘Animal rights activists are not welcome in South Dakota. Hunting, meat, and fur are our economy.’”

“So get your tree-hugging, bunny-loving, wimpy liberal asses back to Minnesota?” Toby leans back in his chair.

“That’s the implication, yes.”

“Guys,” Leo cuts in, stepping forward so he’s between Toby and Josh, “Let me remind you that this is a national election, and while we are all from the East coast—“

“Sam’s from California,” Josh corrects.

“And aren’t you from Chicago?” asks Toby.

Leo glares. “Sitting around insulting the Midwest gets us nowhere.”

“Except that it makes my smile so much brighter,” Toby says. Leo just scowls at him. Toby turns back to Sam. “What do you do?”

Toby’s gaze is dark and scouring, and Sam would’ve given almost anything to be able to say he’s in fundraising. “I – I’m a lawyer,” he stammers.

Immediately, Toby’s interest in him vanishes. “A new boy for Legal,” he says, and it is clearly a dismissal.

“Only, Sam’s not here to do the, the legal stuff.” Sam wonders when Josh will learn to keep his mouth shut.

Toby’s expression never flickers. “Thank God. I’ve been waiting for the team to show up to do the illegal stuff.” He waves at a stack of boxes in a corner. “Run these documents to the Watergate and shred them.”

Sam laughs, less because the joke’s funny – though it is – than because it’s at Josh expense.

“Sam’s a writer,” Josh says, tersely, wounded.

Dark and scouring returns. “Writers work for me,” he says. Sam stands very still, knowing he’s being inspected. “When was the last time you wrote something that wasn’t a case report or an amicus brief?”

Sam opens his mouth to defend himself, but Josh butts in, takes over, answers for him again. “Sam was a speech-writer for Al Barnard.”

“Wow. He’s a moron.” Toby tilts his head to the side. “But he gave good speeches. Who’s your favorite writer?”

“Dickens.” Sam hopes this is an acceptable answer.

Toby rolls his eyes. “Great. Interminable sentences and no verbs.” He shakes his head, waggles a finger at Sam. “Not in my campaign.”

“Your campaign?” Josh asks, amused but challenging.

Toby raises an eyebrow at Josh. “Do I know you?”

Sam chuckles. Working for Toby, he predicts, will make him insane, will make him tear the hair from his head, drink heavily, and possibly howl at the moon. But if he’s going to learn things from Toby – and he has no doubt that he will – maybe one of those things will be this knack of Toby’s for ignoring Josh, for dismissing and disregarding him. The fact that Sam is standing in this room attests that he does not have this skill.

“All right,” Leo says, and he puts his hand on Josh’s shoulder and steers him out of the room, “I need a speech for the governor to give to the Midwest contributors next week. The stupidity of the people of Minnesota and South Dakota will play no part in those remarks.” He smiles at Sam. “Good to have you on board, Sam.”

Sam smiles back. “Thank you, Leo. It’s good to be here.”

As soon as they leave the room, Sam knows, Josh will tell Leo vaguely complimetary but ultimately patronizing things about him. Toby is muttering about South Dakotans and pro wrestlers, and when he finally looks at Sam he says, “Come on, Norman; let’s see how badly you write.”

But that doesn’t mean that Sam didn’t mean what he said.