Finding he’d finished his beer, and seeing his wife needed a top-up on her wine, Kip excused himself and hurried through to the kitchen. He didn’t need to hear himself mouthing platitudes about ‘reaching out and finding out’, but he did want to get back in time to listen to that week’s correspondence. It was his habit each week, again encouraged by Jed, to read three or four of the many letters written to him by his listeners, or as Jed insisted on calling them, voters. Although, since many of the letters came from children, that wasn’t entirely accurate. He grabbed a fresh Red Hook Ale from the fridge, and the ass end of a bottle of some French chardonnay that Barb had been working through, before hurrying back. He returned just as his radio self was finishing reading a letter from a small boy in Kansas City, an Indian migrant, who wanted to know why people at school were so unkind.

‘Well, Ravi, a lot of the time, when people are teasing you, or being mean to you, it’s not about you at all. It’s about them not feeling very good about themselves. And thinking, maybe, that if they can make somebody else feel bad, it might make them feel better.’

KILLEEN, TEXAS ADMINISTRATIVE DIVISION

Why did she bother listening to this rubbish? Sofia was tempted to pull the tiny earphones out and throw them away in disgust. She often felt that way when listening to President Kipper’s radio talks. He was one of those men who was always trying to see the best in people, even when there was nothing good to be seen.

She pulled the blanket tighter around herself, huddling deeper into the armchair that looked out on the empty street. Her fourth, and she suspected her last, hideout. At least in Temple or Killeen. If she got out alive, she supposed that the rest of her life would be spent in hideouts.

‘If I could speak to those boys who are bullying you, Ravi,’ the President said, ‘I would ask them just how tough they really are. Do you think they’re as tough as one of our Cavalry troopers chasing pirates out of the West Coast cities? Or one of our railroad men, like your dad, working right out in the wilderness, way past the frontier? Are they even as tough as old Mrs Cooper, the lady who wrote the last letter I read out, who gets up before the sun every morning to attend to her chickens, so she can take fresh eggs down to the militia post for all the men and women there who’ve been up through the night keeping her safe from bandits? What do you think, Ravi – do you think those guys at school are that tough? I don’t. But I’ll bet you are.’