1.

It is August. Congress is in recess. You are not in recess. You are running a reelection campaign for the First Congressional District in Virginia. Your opponent’s name is Nancy Beavers, and you have made up your mind that from here on out there will be no more days off. If you are going to lose your job, it is not going to be to a woman. Not a woman named Nancy. Not a woman named Nancy. Fucking. Beavers.

So you had no intention of taking today off, but today there’s a heat wave. Grids are out all over the city. Your grid is one of the ones that are out.

The A/C is not working. The internet is not working. The TV is not working. Nothing is working. You are not working.

You are reposed upon a Victorian sofa the color of canaries that your assistant purchased for you three days ago at a street antique fair for $1900, flipping through the book Images of Greatness: An Intimate Look at the Presidency of Ronald Reagan until you find what you’re looking for: a photograph of the Gipper reclined upon a canary-yellow velvet Victorian sofa.

Important-looking papers cross his chest.

You have looked at this photograph many times—it is the reason why you purchased this sofa, and now that you have it, you are lying on the exact same sofa in the exact same position as Ronald Wilson Reagan.

You turn the page.

There is Dutch, the Gipper, on his ranch, riding a horse chased by piebald foxhounds, the paunch of his stomach outlining a lightweight denim cowboy shirt, and you bought that exact same shirt at the exact same antique fair, and how the flaps of his tan riding pants do crest the tops of his riding boots, you think, and consider sending your assistant to return to the fair to seek out those boots, when the doorbell rings.

Your doorbell is not a buzzer, it’s something more ancient. Like from the Eighties. You wonder who it could be because no one ever comes to your door. Everyone always comes to your office. Then you wonder how the doorbell is working when nothing else is. The doorbell, you realize, is not attached to the grid.

This freaks you out.

It could be Rutledge or Olioke, you think, the two congressmen who stay with you during the week in the extra rooms of your townhouse near the Capitol while Congress is in session, but that’s highly unlikely: Representative William “Billy” Rutledge (D) is back on his farm with his wife and five sons. He left two days ago and won’t be back ’til September. Representative Solomon “Sammy” Olioke (R) is at some cottage with his wife and five daughters. Some crappy cottage by some crappy lake, and Olioke leaves his crap everywhere in your townhouse, he’s crappy at governing, he’s from Rhode Island, he’s been reelected four times, so even though he’s a Republican, you kind of hate Olioke.