He closed his eyes for a moment, inhaled with his full body. “Obviously you don’t. And it concerns me, because we have things to do, and battles to wage, and you don’t seem like you’re here. You seem like you’re somewhere else, flouncing around in a world where my reelection doesn’t matter, and love conquers all.”

“To be fair,” I said, trying to diffuse some tension, hoping this new approach might help my case, “I’ve never flounced anywhere in my life.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bo hide a smile behind his fist. Miles didn’t laugh, but one side of his mouth did inch upward, which I counted as a victory. Still, he went on: “You’re making mistakes, Daisy. You’re fumbling on easy plays. It makes me think—” He stopped and recalibrated. “I think your father’s death and the news of his royal fuckup has affected you more than you realize. Maybe you came back to work too soon,” he said.

“No.” My reaction was quick, vehement. Without work, then what? This job was the only thing in my life that was making sense.

“The shit with your father, that you couldn’t control,” Miles said, softer now. “But this you could’ve. Take some more time off, okay? I’ll call you in two weeks. Deal with your family. Be there for each other. I know things have been difficult, and it’s clearly getting to you. Bo, you’re acting COS.”

Miles stood, adjusted his cuffs, and left the room. Outside, the sounds of business—phones, footsteps, shuffling paper. Someone had turned on the television in the press office, and it was too loud. Commercials for diabetes medicine blared. Catheters would come next. Then, life insurance for the over-fifty.

“That was tough.” Bo studied me in his typical way. That is, it felt as though he was doing some back-of-the-envelope calculations about my mood and what he could say that wouldn’t hasten my spiral.

“An understatement.” I stared at my phone. I needed to look busy so I didn’t look ashamed. I’d helped Miles get elected; now he felt I was deadweight. “But that’s business.”

“He’s angry about the picture,” Bo said. “Once the news cycle changes, he’ll get over it. They’ll all get over it.” His hand squeezed where my shoulder muscle should have been. Instead, what did he feel? Flesh, padding, softness—no real definition at all.

My phone I placed facedown on the table. Its protective, rubberized cover used to be bright white before time and everyday use and the occasional mishap soiled it into a beigey gray. “Miles is right,” I admitted. “I’m off. I’m not performing like you all need me to.”

“You make yourself sound like an internet router,” said Bo.