Today he was signing copies of his recent book. Part memoir of growing up mixed-race and gay, part argument for mental health reform, it had been published when I’d been on leave. Instant bestseller. There was talk of a movie. I waited for him to turn, noticing some gray in his barely there buzz where I could’ve sworn there hadn’t been at my father’s memorial service. Miles doesn’t rattle easily, not like the rest of us do, but there it was—the reminder of how stress manifests itself outwardly, even when we do our best to hide it.

“Daisy,” Miles said, the machine still whirring, “is that you?”

“I’m back,” I said, and I meant, Here I am, set to go.

“Good. It’s been hard out here without my chief of staff. First, will you look at a statement Bo wrote for me yesterday? Please convince him to quit using the phrase ‘commonsense solutions.’”

“It’s not a bad line,” I said.

“Thank you, Daisy.” Robert Smalls Reed himself, speak of the deputy, was suddenly beside me in the doorway. Bo, as everyone knew him, had left the Low Country when he’d enlisted in the army a dozen years ago. He still had the basic training haircut, still wore unfussy clothes in colors that could be found in camouflage, still could sneak up on you without unsettling the dust. “You’ve been gone, and nothing has been right,” he said. “Miles talks shit about everyone and everything. For the past forty-eight hours, he’s been on a rampage about some bro from K Street who won’t take no meeting for an answer.”

“What else do you need me to do?” I asked Miles, because here it was: the first opportunity to disentangle myself from my father. “Besides helping you fend off the bottom-feeders?”

“What I need”—Miles finally swiveled on his stool to face me—“is for you to be at full throttle. Are you ready?”

I’ve been up, and I’ve been down, my father used to say. Up is better. “Yes.” I smiled brightly. “I’m ready to go yell at lobbyists for you.”

He didn’t laugh often, but when he did, like now, he showed teeth. “Daisy Richardson, yelling? A month out of the office and you come back roaring.”

“That might be my stomach you’re hearing, boss,” Bo said. “L.K. texted and said she’s bringing food.”

“I’m here,” Lorelei Kaufmann, who much preferred to be called by her initials, rounded the corner with her briefcase and a plastic grocery bag. “I got bagels. Oh—Daisy! You’re back! Are you—I mean—how are guys doing?”

“Did you bring the good salted butter?” Bo took the bag out of her hand, inspected the contents.

“We’re fine,” I said, smiling, chipper, and L.K.’s face relaxed into relief. “Are there any sesames?”