“I am sorry to disturb you, sir, but thank you for talking with me,” said the president. “Are you able to speak comfortably?”

The man pulled down his oxygen mask. Immediately his work of breathing increased; he drew in a loud, labored breath but kept his eyes trained on the tablet. “I’m,” he rasped. “Not. Going to make it.”

The president did not attempt to argue with this assertion. Instead she studied the man for a moment, a bright fluidity shining in her brown eyes. She didn’t blink. “What’s your name? If you don’t mind sharing it, that is.”

“I’m . . . Nathaniel Amir, ma’am. Nate.”

“Mr. Amir, Nate, I can see it’s hard for you to breathe, so I won’t keep you long.”

An explosive cough escaped Mr. Amir, flinging a dark red glob of sputum onto the tablet. For a moment we might as well have been viewing him through a ruby. Christiane wiped the tablet with something and retrained it on Mr. Amir, who wore an expression of horror at having coughed up part of his lung onto the president of the United States.

“I’m sorry . . .”

“Do not,” said the president, “be sorry. I’m sorry, Mr. Amir—Nate—for failing you. Tell me what you need. I’ll do anything I can for you.”

“Is there any,” said Nate. He stopped, breathing heavily, and started again. “I need . . .”

“Go on,” said the president. She sat, straight-backed and square-shouldered, her face free of makeup, her ears and neck unadorned with jewelry. She regarded Mr. Amir for a long time without blinking. “It’s okay.”

Nate struggled onto his forearms, rasping in a shuddery breath. Like the president, he’d mastered the knack of digital eye contact, never looking away from the camera, even as he worked to take in enough air to speak. “My wife,” he said finally. “My girls. They’re home. Can you . . .”

“Would you like us to check on them? I can have someone do that right now.”

“Yes,” said Nate. Another pause as he sucked in air, the sound magnified by the speakers in the room into a scuttling inhuman scrape. “Yes, please. Ayshana . . . Sasha, and Lynnie. Please.” He stopped again. “I need to know . . . they’re okay. Before . . . I die.”

“We’ll find out for you,” said the president. Her posture remained rigid, but her tone had softened, so much so that several people jerked their gaze from the screen, startled. “We’ll check on them for you, Mr. Amir, and we’ll help them if they need anything. I promise you, I will see they get anything they need. You have my word.”

Mr. Amir nodded, slumping back onto his pillow.