I went to the office. Habit, mostly. I had no place else to go. The early morning streets were unnaturally quiet. A massive street cleaner moved like a square metal animal down the block, its circulating brushes spinning curb debris into the air. There were more soldiers and militia than people, looking bored. I walked past Jerry Stern’s spot over the grating. All traces of him—his shopping cart, blankets, cardboard signs—were gone; there was nothing to indicate he ever existed. He had been wiped away, “cleaned up,” in the new vernacular.

As I walked along, I was wary but not overly concerned. Mighty Chair was my all-access pass, its bulk making me invisible. No threat to anyone. I considered my options. Whatever steps I took had to be carefully planned. I couldn’t involve anyone else. Anyone specifically meaning Jenny. First thing I had to do … Cher interrupted my reverie: “Rollie, your mother is calling.”

Perfect. I have always admired my mother’s intuition. It seemed like every time I was busy trying to save the world, she would interrupt me. “Hi, Ma,” I said as cheerfully as I could manage.

“I’m worried about you. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine.”

How many times had we had this same conversation? Oddly, her voice was reassuring. The country might be collapsing, we might be on the verge of becoming a police state, but all that mattered to her was that I was okay. “Honest, Mom, I’m fine.”

She hesitated, trying to decide if I meant it. Apparently I was fine, because she changed the subject. “Did you see what he did last night? Have you ever seen anything like that? Oh my god.”

I needed that laugh more than she would ever know.

The office was mostly empty when I got there. Frankie B. greeted me. He was standing at his own desk, putting his Trump-on-his-haunches pencil holder into an already overstuffed backpack. “Hey, Rol,” he said. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. Apparently my health was the question of the day.

He stopped packing. “So what are you going to do?”

I’d thought about that. I was going to work as long as possible. “I’m going to start with a reaction piece, I think. See how people…”

Frankie looked at me as if I were an alien. “You’re kidding, right?” He shook his head in disbelief. “Rollie, we’re done here. This…” He indicated the office. “We’re done. These fuckers aren’t going to let us publish anymore. I just came in to collect my stuff before they lock the doors.”

Back in the sandbox, when I was getting shit together to meet the fan, I was always calm. I knew the risks, I knew my skills. I had learned how to channel anxiety into positive energy. That was in my Rollie 1.0 days. But as I looked at Frankie, I could feel the fear in the air. This time fear had control. “What are you doing, Frank?”

He scratched his neck. “Whatever I have to, I guess. All that crap I wrote about Wrightman? Maybe that wasn’t such a great idea.” He looked up and yelled at the ceiling, “If anybody’s listening, as of right now I have always loved my president!”