“Come on in,” Dunne said. His voice was raspy. His mouth drooped. When Addis took Dunne’s hand, Dunne squeezed hard and held the grip.

“Not too bad,” Dunne said.

“Not at all,” Addis said.

Alma excused herself.

“How are you?” Addis asked. He tried not to look at the television.

“Better than some,” Dunne said. He swallowed hard after finishing the sentence. “Still scarred,” he explained. “The cords.”

Addis waited as he swallowed again.

“But moaning don’t help … . Working hard. Phys-i-cal ther-a-py. Vocal ther-a-py.” He pronounced the words mockingly.

“No men-tal ther-a-py?” Addis asked.

Dunne started to laugh. Then phlegm caught in his throat. He grimaced as he cleared it and spit the saliva into a tissue.

“Don’t make me laugh,” Dunne said. He dropped the Kleenex into a wastebasket.

“Promise,” Addis said.

Dunne pointed to the rocking chair next to him and Addis sat down. Senator Hugh Palmer was on the television screen. Family, friends, and aides huddled behind him, as he addressed a crowd.

“Want to hear?” Dunne asked.

“It’s history, right?”

Dunne pushed a button on the remote.

“ … It was a long, a hard, and an uphill fight. Not for a moment will I regret returning to the Senate. And we will be back. Our values have not been spurned. We shall continue to serve them and rebuild for the future. We are loyal to our cause: a just, productive America, where prosperity, tolerance, and opportunity reign for all. Where the political system is not ruled by those who exploit it to selfishly advance their own advantage. Where a child can grow up knowing his future is determined by what is in his heart and his head, not the surroundings into which he—or she—is born. Where our nation is as strong as it is diverse. Come another day, we will triumph.”

The audience applauded and yelled his name. People held signs bearing the year of the next presidential election.

“We will!” Palmer shouted. “We will!”

“There you have it,” an anchor said, “an early concession speech that was no surprise. On an election day that broke records for low voter turnout—”

Dunne silenced the television.

“Been getting on?” Dunne asked.

“Shit, Clarence, how can I complain when you’re—” Addis caught himself. “I’m sorry, I’m really—”

Dunne waved a hand at him: “Stop it.”

“I suppose I’m doing alright. But sometimes I feel there’s not much left of me, after the hearings, the grand juries, you know.”

On the screen, the network was recapping the previous months. There was the front page with Hynes-Pierce’s story and footage of the press conference where the reporter had displayed the documents supporting his scoop.