Mia took the escalator to the second floor and stepped into a long open room that would soon be Harrington’s official campaign headquarters. It was filled with people on a mission, some carrying chairs, printers, boxes of supplies, setting up workstations. Mia barely missed running into a plump older woman carrying an armful of large cardboard posters with Harrington’s handsome face, his mouth beaming out a smile, a pithy quote underneath, on their way to being plastered throughout the city. The woman only nodded and sailed by her. She spotted Cory Hughes, Harrington’s campaign manager, looking as dapper and smooth as he had last night, only today he was in his shirtsleeves, eyeing his watch. She knew he’d been around the political block many times, for both parties, a politico to his heels. Milo had told her Hughes didn’t believe much in political philosophies, what he loved was the game and winning the game. His last success was running Governor Siever’s campaign. Milo thought Alex Harrington had a good chance of winning with Cory driving the bus.

Hughes spotted her, jogged over, a big smile on his face. “Good morning, Mia, good to see you again. You’re right on time, but then you always are, I’m told. Alex is up to his eyeballs today with interviews but I know he particularly wanted to meet with you.”

A line she’d expected, but that was okay, it was one of the rules of the game—make the candidate seem as busy and important as the president but with just enough time for one special journalist.

She gave him a grin and followed him past cheek-to-jowl desks, tangles of electrical cords, computer monitors, and signs everywhere, propped against the desks, against every wall. Many of the volunteers, most under twenty-five, had their cells pressed against their ears or were stuffing envelopes, making huge stacks of them. She could easily tell the volunteers from the paid staff because only the volunteers bothered watching her, wondering who she was and if she was important. The old hands who drew a check recognized her as a reporter and didn’t pay her any attention. She saw Miles Lombardy, Harrington’s senior staffer she’d met at the fundraiser last night, leaning over someone at a desk, speaking quietly. He looked up, gave her a small wave, but didn’t come over.

Cory Hughes ushered her into a glass-walled office to see Alex Harrington sitting behind a banged-up rented desk, with several rented chairs as derelict as the desk in front of it. Obviously a man of the people. He’d taken off his Armani jacket and rolled up his sleeves, the poster boy for the busy candidate hard at work. He ended his cell phone call when he saw her and rose.