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Note for non-US readers: The television interviewers in this story are 
real US morning show hosts. No disrespect to the actual, living people 
is intended. They're nice guys and gals. I just borrowed them for 
verisimilitude.  
Summary: Like taking an umbrella to make sure it doesn't rain, you 
write your best friend's obituary to keep him from dying before you 
get home. 

With loving thanks to Caz for her perspicacity. 
  

*** 
Written 
*** 
  

C.J. once said that it's written somewhere - no one can look good on a 
morning show. You remind yourself of that as you settle into the guest 
dressing room to let a young woman drape you and dab you with 
foundation. It's amazing how one bad night can take away a tan and 
replace it with flesh the color of overcooked oatmeal. You wonder if 
you should have donated blood. It couldn't have made you 
look any worse and might have made you feel better. 

You wish you could donate a lung. 

"I'll just be a minute, Mr. Seaborn," the makeup artist says, and her 
voice is soft and apologetic. "I know you have a million other things 
you need to be doing right now." 

She doesn't have any idea how much you hated getting on the press 
helicopter to New York in the middle of the night. She has no clue 
how much you want to be back in D.C., in that grim waiting room where 
Donna, the First Lady, and Mrs. Landingham abide like the three fates 
who decide when a man's life will be cut off like a piece of string. 

You hope no one has scissors. 

You finger your pocket because your notebook is in there and you want 
to make sure it stays with you. It's the stuff about Josh, the words 
that spilled out of your unsteady pen on the press helicopter this 
morning, the words you wrote just in case. 

Like taking an umbrella to make sure it doesn't rain, you write your 
best friend's obituary to keep him from dying before you get home. 

Joshua Jacob Lyman, age thirty-eight... 

There's a brisk knock on the door and it's your Secret Service escort, 
Steve. "Mr. Seaborn? There are people to see you." 

"Yeah. I'm good," you say as you look up to check your visitors. 

It's Katie, who you've worked with a dozen times before, and to your 
surprise Matt is with her. "Hey," you say, getting up out of your 
chair with no little difficulty and shaking their hands. 

Katie presses a kiss to your cheek, then carefully wipes the lipstick 
off your newly-made-up face. "Sam, thank you so much for doing this. 
Are you okay?" 

That's the world's dumbest question and you're shocked that an 
interviewer of her caliber would ask you such a thing. Then you 
remember that you're off the clock, off the camera, and she's asking 
as one human being to another. 

"I've been better," you say, because you know her well enough to tell 
the truth and not have her think you're unprofessional. "How ya doin', 
Matt?" 

He takes your hand a second time, clasping it a bit longer than a 
normal hello, and he looks genuinely worried. "I'm fine. Just wanted 
to make sure you have everything you need before we start. We're live 
but we're gonna show it all morning so you can make the rounds and 
still get back on time. I know you're worried about Josh." 

Joshua Jacob Lyman, age thirty-eight...Connecticut-born Fulbright 
scholar... 

"We're on in ten," Katie adds, and she pats your arm as if you're a 
desolate child in need of consoling. And who says you're not? 
"Anything you want to start with? Anything you want to avoid?" 

"I can't comment on Secret Service procedures, of course, and I can't 
give the names of the shooters or the suspect who just got arrested. 
Other than that, I guess I'm just supposed to tell you what I 
remember from last night." 

"How's the President?" Matt asks. 

"It looks good - the bullet exited and didn't hit anything important. 
He'll be released on Wednesday." 

"And Josh?" Katie tightens her grasp on your arm and you wish she'd 
stop because she could easily squeeze tears out of you and you can't 
let that happen. 

"He was still on heart-lung bypass when I left. We should know 
something in a few more hours." 

An assistant director hovers in the doorway. "We'd better go," 
Matt says. "It'd probably be a good idea if you wait in the wings if 
that's okay. There are chairs." 

"Yeah, I can do that," you say, because it's easier than sitting here 
and brooding and you know you won't crack as long as other people 
are there with you. So you follow, noticing that you've managed to put 
on mismatched socks. They're both black. Maybe no one will notice. 

A stagehand clips a wireless mike to your lapel. "Sorry about last 
night," he says in a gruff Brooklyn accent. "Hope they fry in hell. 
Bastards." 

"Yeah, uh, yeah. Thanks." 

You wait for the short segment in front of you to be over and take 
your seat opposite Katie in the surprisingly uncomfortable chairs. 
"On in five...four...three..." The director stops counting aloud and 
points a finger. 

Katie welcomes you to the Today show. "Sam, we appreciate the time 
you're taking to speak with us this morning. What can you tell us 
about the incident in Rosslyn last night?" 

What can you tell her? Can you tell her what it felt like to try to 
account for the whole group, all the while not knowing what happened 
to the President? Can you tell her what it felt like when, just as 
you thought everyone was safe, you heard Toby's wrenching call for 
help? 

"We left the building and headed for the motorcade. I was about ten 
feet behind President Bartlet and his daughter and C.J. Cregg was near
me. I don't know where the others were, exactly." 

You take a deep breath and fall into the routine. You were trained for 
this, for giving a deposition, for not letting anything get in the way 
of the facts. 

"What did you see or hear?" 

"I didn't see anything except for a couple of Secret Service agents 
looking...jumpier than normal. Then I heard someone yell 'Gun!' and I 
got down out of the way. I think I pushed someone down...with me...
when I fell." 

In your other pocket is C.J.'s necklace. You hope she doesn't make the 
connection right now. Maybe you'll just slip the necklace onto her 
desk when you get in. 

"While you were down, did you see or hear anything?" 

"I heard...shots. And there was glass breaking right over my head. 
I've still got some in my hair, I think," you say as you run your 
fingers nervously through your hair. "We heard sirens and someone 
said they had the President and Zoe Bartlet in their cars, so we got 
up. We couldn't find Leo McGarry or Josh Lyman, and someone said they 
were both in a limo. But it was just Leo. Toby Ziegler went looking 
for Josh and..." 

Joshua Jacob Lyman, age thirty-eight...Connecticut-born Fulbright 
scholar and graduate of Harvard and Yale... 

Oh, damn. You feel the hot stinging and you pray, please, God, don't 
let her touch me, don't let her look at me with those compassionate 
eyes. 

Katie keeps her hands on her notebook and her gaze on the lens of the 
camera that's over your shoulder and to the left. You see Matt, 
standing carefully out of the shot, mouthing, "Take your time, Sam." 

You nod and you're ready when Katie continues. "When did you find out 
about Josh Lyman being shot?" 

"Toby found him. He said..." You have to swallow a couple of times. 
There's water in a glass beside you but you know damn well your hand 
will shake if you pick it up, and if it shakes then C.J. will kill you 
when you get home. "Toby called for help. An ambulance came and they 
put Josh in a neck brace and got him on a stretcher. We all went in 
the ambulance - Toby, C.J., and I did. And Charlie Young, the 
President's aide." 

"What was it like?" 

"Scary." You finger the notebook again. "There was a lot of blood and 
Josh wasn't able to talk. It was obvious that he couldn't breathe and 
that he was terrified." 

"Were you afraid?" 

"I was...I was...yeah. Afraid." 

"And what's the latest update?" 

It's easy now. This is the part you've rehearsed, that you've seen 
C.J. do a dozen times already. Deep breath. "The President's condition 
has been upgraded from stable to good and they expect to release him 
on Wednesday. There was a woman named Stephanie Abbott who was shot 
in the thigh. Her injury was not life-threatening and she is listed in 
good condition. Secret Service Agent Ron Butterfield was shot in the 
hand and should be undergoing surgery shortly." 

"And how is Josh Lyman?" 

Joshua Jacob Lyman, age thirty-eight...Connecticut-born Fulbright 
scholar, graduate of Harvard and Yale...political strategist whose 
brilliant work catapulted Josiah Bartlet into the Presidency... 

"The doctors have reinflated his lung and are working on repairing the 
damage to his artery. He's on heart-lung bypass and the surgery has 
been going on all night. We won't know anything more for several more 
hours." You come up for air. "Two of the three shooters were taken 
down by the Secret Service on the scene. The third was arrested early 
this morning. C.J. Cregg will give a briefing when we are able to 
release more information. For now - that's really all I know." 

"Our prayers and best wishes are with all of you. Sam Seaborn, White 
House Deputy Chief of Communications. When we return, we'll hear 
from some of the spectators who witnessed last night's assassination 
attempt." 

"We're out," says the director, and you relax in your chair. 

"You did great, Sam," Katie tells you, and you wish you could believe 
her but you can't for the life of you remember what you said just 
now. "Why don't you go back to your dressing room and relax for a 
few minutes?" 

"I can't, Katie - I've got Bryant at CBS in half an hour." You pull 
your leaden limbs out of the chair and let her hug you. She's a warm 
person, she means well. She made you look clear-headed even though 
you've got cobwebs with their own zip codes where your brains should 
be. 

"Okay, then. But give us a call when you know something. I've 
interviewed Josh. He's...he's gonna be just fine. Someone that tough, 
that bright..." 

"I know." You squeeze her hands and give everyone a little wave as 
you find Steve waiting for you. As you pass one of the assistant 
directors you hear something that makes you want to vomit. 

"Yeah, he's a good choice - he's got that sad face, he's all sober and 
dressed in his wrinkled suit from last night. Bet their approval 
rating goes up fifteen points." 

You stiffen. Steve stiffens. You consider asking him to go back there 
and punch the bastard's lights out, or better yet, let you do it 
yourself. "We're outta here," you say to Steve and you let him guide 
you through the maze of corridors and down to where your car is 
waiting. 

You'd rather walk. You'd rather see the sun's rays hit the Prometheus 
fountain and go for a leisurely stroll, stopping for a soft, salted 
pretzel. But there's a job to do, and it sucks, because you're in 
pain and it's a beautiful spring dawn in Midtown and you can't enjoy 
ten seconds of it because Josh's heart may or may not be beating. 

Joshua Jacob Lyman, age thirty-eight...Connecticut-born Fulbright 
scholar, graduate of Harvard and Yale...political strategist whose 
brilliant work catapulted Josiah Bartlet into the Presidency...whose 
wit, energy, and infectious charm moved political mountains... 

It's the same ordeal at CBS, and at ABC. You do a remote interview for 
CNN on the phone in the car going back to LaGuardia. It happens with 
merciful speed and you can be unconscious for it, not paying attention 
to Bryant or Diane or Bill, just rattling off the facts. Only when 
Steve slips you onto the tarmac and into your seat do you really 
have time to think again. 

You finally get hold of Leo, who says he has no news on Josh. You sigh 
heavily, and Leo adds that the President is awake and doing better. 
He's worried about the letter that didn't get signed, and about Toby 
wanting to take the blame for the canopy being down, but you tell him 
that you remember how much the President wanted to be in the open air. 

"I'll be in around eight this morning," you tell him, still dazed 
from the 4 a.m. flight and the subsequent two hours of interviewing. 
"I'll be in my office." 

"You did a good job," says Leo just before hanging up without a 
goodbye, and it's the warmest you've felt since you left the Newseum. 

The rotors give you a headache. You take the notebook out of your 
pocket but you can't see the words through your hazy, exhausted eyes. 
Your glasses fog up because your eyes are so wet. You lean back and 
try not to think, but the words still well up like the tears you will 
not shed. 

Joshua Jacob Lyman, age thirty-eight...Connecticut-born Fulbright 
scholar, graduate of Harvard and Yale...political strategist whose 
brilliant work catapulted Josiah Bartlet into the Presidency...whose 
wit, energy, and infectious charm moved political mountains...his 
life brought to an untimely end in a meaningless act of hatred... 

You're close to D.C. now. On the ground you can see the tiny flashing 
lights of the police cars that will escort you back to the White 
House. It's almost eight. You wonder if there had been a sunrise for 
Josh this morning. No, no, if he'd...Leo would have told you. Your 
cell phone is on. You keep checking it, half expecting to hear Josh's 
voice on the other end asking you to bring him pizza and a beer. 

When the helicopter lands your ears stop up and you relish the pain 
because it brings you a micron closer to what Josh must have felt when 
the metal tore through his chest. Steve guides you past the whirling 
blades and into a limo. His job is to take a bullet for you. You 
would've gladly taken the one that hit Josh. Anything but this. 

When you pull up at the entrance, Leo is there waiting for you. You 
can't read his face. 

Joshua Jacob Lyman, age thirty-eight...Connecticut-born Fulbright 
scholar, graduate of Harvard and Yale...political strategist whose 
brilliant work catapulted Josiah Bartlet into the Presidency...whose 
wit, energy, and infectious charm moved political mountains... his 
life brought to an untimely end in a meaningless act of hatred...
beloved son and treasured friend whose heart will never truly stop 
as long as he is remembered by those who knew and loved him... 

Leo clasps you by the shoulders when you finally get your arms and 
legs out of the car and stand up. "The First Lady just called. 
They're starting to take him off bypass and it's looking good. 
He's looking good, Sam." 

You try to smile at him before heading for your office. The spiral 
notebook cuts into your palm as you walk with your hands in your 
pockets. You can't look at Josh's office when you pass by. It's never 
dark like this, never empty, and you can't imagine what it would be 
like to have to go through his things and watch Donna wither from 
grief before your eyes. 

But Leo said it was looking good. And Leo is an honorable man...and 
you can't tell if you're laughing or crying as exhaustion takes over 
and leaves you shaking. You sit in your chair with your feet up, 
leaning back to look out the window and whisper a prayer out into the 
morning sunshine. 

Carol walks in, a little stooped from lack of sleep. "Hey, Sam. C.J. 
wanted me to tell you she's going over to the hospital in a few 
minutes, after her briefing." 

"Yeah, thanks." You take your feet off the desk and watch her as she 
leaves, then you pull the notebook out and look at your notes. 

It's written on paper, but not on destiny. Atropos and her abhorred 
shears will have to wait. 

Joshua Jacob Lyman...no. Not this time. 

You start writing. 

He's going to live. Not be survived, but survive. With a few strokes 
of your pen, you perform surgery as delicate as the doctors at 
Georgetown are doing, and fate is changed. 

It's written. 

*** 
End