The president-elect is to make an address to the nation in a few minutes. On the screen, the tumultuous crowd gathered in Grant Park, Chicago, a block from the headquarters, anxiously awaits Obama, amid a sea of rippling red, white, and blue, a sparkle of flashes. Bill wishes he were there, or in the Reno headquarters, or even downtown with Fiaz and Pierre, where the moment would seem less unreal, less surreal, less virtual by virtue of the company of others who’d dreamed and labored for this moment.

The wait for Obama to take the stage in Grant Park seems interminable, and at the same time he wishes for Obama to be delayed till Seema comes home. He has poured out two glasses of sherry, he’s microwaved the two frozen slices of cake they’d saved from their wedding party.

A hush: Ladies and gentlemen, the next first family of the United States of America—

Barack Obama steps out from the wings, sober and dignified, leading his younger daughter by the hand, followed by his wife and elder daughter. They are dressed in shades of red and black, the white of Obama’s shirt dazzling in the blue haze of the stage. Obama’s smile, when he first smiles, is almost self-conscious, without his usual confidence. His wife and daughters, too, seem shy, suddenly unsure of themselves. How tiny and defenseless they look as they walk toward the front of the stage and stand there, holding hands, waving at the enormous crowd lapping hungrily at their feet.

Bill’s first instinct is to gather them in a huddle, form a protective shield around them. His second is to reach for Seema, except she isn’t here. When Obama bends down and whispers something in his younger daughter’s ear, and she laughs and skips, it catches Bill by surprise: the sudden collapse of his chest, as if he’ll never breathe again, as if all the air in the room were insufficient to ease the strain on his lungs. The room is a blur, for there are tears in his eyes, of what seems almost like pain, and the noise from the TV is a befuddling roar in his ears.

Obama kisses both his daughters on their foreheads, then kisses his wife. His family turns and walks away, leaving him alone to face the crowd. “If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible—” he begins. “Tonight is your answer.”

“Mame, this is for you,” Bill toasts, raising his glass of sherry. Forgive me, he texts Seema, please come home.

He downs the sherry but will put away the cake after the speech. For the rest of the night he will remain awake, watching the election results till the early hours of the morning, alert to every buzz or ring on his cell phone, the whine of every car winding its way up the dark and desolate road past their house.