Penn challenged him. “That’s easy to say, Burt, but you’re one of the great partisans in this House. To the other side—”

“The other side wants the power,” Sinclair interrupted. “Why make this more complicated than it needs to be? When we reconvene, Randy Banks will be in the Speaker’s chair, and his first order of business will be to hold the vote that will get him fired.”

A welcome laugh rippled through the cafeteria.

Sinclair continued, “Angela Fortnight will become Speaker, and you’ll have the pleasure of working together to lead the nation out of this ungodly mess that we never would have been in if Helen Blanton wasn’t a total incompetent.” He smiled as he glanced over the glasses that perpetually defied the laws of physics and remained balanced on the tip of his nose. “I trust that we are not on the record.”

Another laugh.

“The oath of office, sir.” Lianne Holt wasn’t coming off that point.

“Fine,” Penn said. “We’ll get that administered during the recess. After I’ve had a chance to take a nap.”

Somebody said, “A joint session.”

Penn’s head snapped toward the source, over to his left, but he didn’t know who the speaker was. “Excuse me?”

Chester Hamilton, of Ohio, stood to be recognized. Bookish, thin and not yet thirty, Chester was part of the incoming congressional freshman class. With his unruly dark hair and round glasses, he bore a striking resemblance to a famous fictional wizard. “Mr. President, sir, I think that you should get word to both the House and the Senate that you intend to conduct a joint session of Congress. The optics will be exactly what you’re looking for. It’s a strong statement to the other side that you’re not going to tolerate their antics, and it’s a way to get as positive a message as you’re willing to give out to the rest of the world. Both here and abroad. Sir.”

Chester blushed when he was done and sat back down. He looked as if he were startled to hear his own words.

“Young man, that is a brilliant idea,” Sinclair said. “You don’t give Fortnight and her sycophants a chance to turn this into a mud fight. Show, don’t tell. Isn’t that the old wisdom?”

* * *

Caleb’s stomach hurt. He was hungry, and he needed to take a dump, but he didn’t want to be the one to make everybody stop. His feet hurt, too, and his legs and his back, but that was just the new way of things. He’d been on long hikes before, and none of this was any different. The pain would peak and go away. Blisters would become calluses, sooner or later. He didn’t have any hot spots on his feet yet, thank God, but he had moleskin in his pack if it came to that.