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“Well,” said Governor Kilburn. She looked briefly amused. “What if I say your terms are too strict, and that my offer's off the table?”

“Then I respond by suggesting you get your friend on the phone and ask him what sort of terms he got from the Masons,” said Ben. “I know Georgia Mason. She's not a friend, but she's a professional colleague, and if the deal she struck with Senator Ryman isn't considerably more rigid and detailed than the one I'm offering you, I'll eat Aislinn's cooking.”

“I can't cook,” I said, recognizing my role in this little drama. “It's sort of like a traffic accident in a pot. Sometimes you can pick out individual ingredients. Mostly not. It's criminal what I do to a potato. Actually criminal.”

“So I'm not going to get anything better, is that what you're saying to me?” asked Governor Kilburn.

“Actually, I'm assuming you already made that phone call, and just wanted to see what we'd do if you offered us something that looked good but was going to leave us hurting later,” said Ben. “Am I close?”

“Very,” said Governor Kilburn. “Full access, but a member of my staff gets to read everything before it goes live, and can flag things as dangerous to either national security or to the viability of my campaign as a whole. You're here to document, not to undermine.”

“We don't delete the things we hold back due to campaign concerns, and we reserve the right to publish them once the campaign is over,” said Ben.

“If I'm President when the campaign is over, you agree not to publish anything that would undermine my ability to do my job,” countered Governor Kilburn.

“You can't forbid us to criticize the President,” said Ben. “That's an unfair request for you to make, and I'm reasonably sure that it would be an illegal contract for us to sign.”

“I'm not asking you never to criticize me,” said Governor Kilburn. “I'm asking you to agree that, should I win, you will not write articles saying I can't govern effectively because I have a tendency to spend Sunday mornings in my pajamas, eating cereal out of the box and watching the Top Forty video countdown. To choose a completely nonspecific example that you cannot possibly prove without signing on for my campaign.”

“CMT or VH1?” asked Mat.

Governor Kilburn turned to blink at them. “I beg your pardon?”

“Are you getting your rock on with the dulcet all-American tones of Country Music Television, or do you prefer the pre-Rising nostalgia of VH1? It's not a
hard
question.”

Governor Kilburn hesitated, looking around the table like she sensed a trap about to snap shut. Finally, she said, “CMT. I like the blue jeans and big hair, and the fact that they think writing love songs about shooting zombies in the head is a good idea. There's a sort of postapocalyptic good cheer about it that just makes me feel better. Sunday mornings are my private time. I'm allowed to spend them however I like, providing nothing is on fire.”

“Right answer,” said Mat. They turned to Ben. “We should take the job.”

“We'll agree not to use personal information we learn to intentionally damage your credibility, providing you will agree that sometimes, that personal information may be relevant to your job.” Ben's lips twitched as he fought a smile. “For example, were you to miss an important presidential event because there was a convention at Dollywood—”

“Dolly Parton was a hero of the Rising, and I dare you to tell any red-blooded American girl who's ever felt bad about her wardrobe differently,” said Governor Kilburn. She wasn't fighting her smile. “Agreed. I can have my men draw up the contract within the hour.”

“And that's… that's it?” I couldn't keep my disbelief out of my tone. “You're not going to ride us about my committal, or try to censor us, or anything?”

“I understand that sometimes those who mean well will start making decisions about your mental health without consulting you, Mrs. North,” said Governor Kilburn. Her tone was gentle, but her left hand touched her right wrist in a way that was all too familiar to me. I'd seen that gesture before, during support group discussions, when people tried to explain their reasons for attempting suicide. “There's no reason for that to be held against you now. Your past is a foundation, not a crime.”

“Except when there are actual crimes in your past, which thankfully, there are not,” said Audrey. She hadn't been talking much through all of this. That was… unusual. I gave her a sidelong look, noting the laser-like focus she was directing toward Governor Kilburn. I almost never saw Audrey look at someone like that. It was rarely, if ever, a good sign when she did. “I want your guarantee that anything which comes up in our background checks that is
not
relevant will be left where it was found. No surprises.”

“No surprises,” agreed Governor Kilburn. She raised her chin fractionally, looking at Ben. “Do we have a deal?”

“One last question: Did you already run through the list of concessions we might ask for with one of your aides, and decide that we were worth the risk?”

Governor Kilburn smiled. “Why, you sound like you think of me as a politician. It's possible I called Peter and asked what
his
journalists had demanded before deciding how I was going to structure this meeting. We both have something to offer each other, here. You can bring my campaign to the attention of the people who don't care much about anything that happens off-line—and frankly, Peter needs the competition. I can bring you to the attention of the world. Let us make each other's lives better.”

“My mother always said not to trust people who come offering you something for nothing,” I said. “Leprechauns aren't real, and what looks like a pot of gold is probably nothing but proof that you've been drinking too much. We're not the only journalists in the world, and you'll forgive me for being a bit wary until we have a working relationship.”

“Oh, I'm not offering you something for nothing,” said Governor Kilburn. “You're going to work hard. You're going to sleep in hotel rooms and trailers. You're going to get so sick of my company that you're going to want to scream. But in exchange, you'll get money, you'll get exposure, and you'll get the chance to be part of making history for a change. Don't you get tired of chasing stories? Come with me, and you'll be able to sit back and watch the stories come to you. You were willing to work for Senator Ryman, even though you all have political leanings that put you much more on my side of the fence. So lean.”

“We're in,” said Ben. None of us objected. He'd seen our decision in our faces, heard it in the questions we were asking; it had been his job to make the final call, because sometimes slow and rational was the only way to approach the race. I went in too hot, Mat went in too careless, and Audrey went in too wary. Ben was our balancing point, the way that we took all those traits and turned them into something useful.

Governor Kilburn smiled and offered her hand across the table. He took it and shook, twice. “I'll have my people send over the contracts tonight. Review them, sign them, and send them back to me. I'll have transport in front of your house the day after tomorrow at oh-nine-hundred hours precisely.”

“Where are we going?” asked Mat.

“Colorado,” said Governor Kilburn. “I'm giving a speech in Denver about the importance of rebuilding our past and reclaiming our future. What better place to begin than in Amanda Amberlee's hometown?”

“You are not wasting any time, lady,” said Mat admiringly. They turned to me. “Can we keep her? I promise to walk her and fill her cereal bowl every morning.”

“That's between you and the governor,” I said, making my voice as prim as I could manage.

“We'll find our own transportation, if you don't mind,” said Audrey. “I'll be a lot more comfortable knowing that I'm not driving someone else's car.” The thought that someone else—someone not on our team—might be doing the driving was unacceptable, and so she was ignoring it. I admired that about her.

“Fair enough,” said Governor Kilburn, laughing as she stood and collected her purse. “I know the footage you shot of this meeting isn't covered by our contract, since you haven't signed anything yet, but I'd appreciate it if you'd remember that we're going to be working together for a while. Please don't cut together anything we're going to butt heads over later.”

“Us, shoot footage in our own kitchen?” Audrey pressed a hand to her chest, eyes widening in exaggerated shock. “What sort of monsters do you take us for?”

“Journalists,” said Governor Kilburn. She cast us one last smile, and then she was out of the kitchen, her hired security following close behind her. From the looks they gave us as they made for the door, we were neither expected nor invited to follow. So we just stayed where we were.

Audrey and I had been standing through that entire encounter. My knees were shaking, more from unnoticed adrenaline than from exhaustion. Still, it seemed like something should be done about that. I sat down, only realizing when I was halfway to the floor that I should probably have aimed for a chair. Too late now. I sank into a cross-legged position, pleating my skirt demurely over my knees. It was an automatic gesture, trained into my muscle memory by hours of drills. If I was going to make wearing a skirt into the field my gimmick, I was going to make damn sure no one saw my panties without an engraved invitation.

Audrey pulled out a chair out and dropped bonelessly into it, resting one elbow on the table for stability. She lifted one bare foot and balanced it on my shoulder, staying in contact. I didn't push her away. In that moment, I needed it as much as she did.

“Did that really just happen?” asked Mat.

“Pretty sure,” said Ben. “How many cameras did we have in here when she showed up?”

“Six,” said Audrey.

“Then we cut together an intro, we make it as human and appealing as we can without actually trending into dishonesty, and we wait for those contracts to show up,” said Ben. “If we sign, we post the ‘guess what we're doing' video, and we open that bottle of champagne we've been saving for a big score.”

Almost timidly, Mat asked, “No, I mean it. Are we really going to do this? Are we going to, you know, go on the campaign trail and be all exposed and visible to the world? Like, is this it?”

“Yeah,” said Ben, with a smile that transformed, bit by bit, into an open grin. He was a beautiful man when he smiled that way. No one could deny that. “This is it. We're going to be journalists for the maybe future President of the United States of America.”

“I need to pack,” said Mat. They stood and fled for the hall, moving fast enough that I suspected “packing” was a cover for a mild panic attack. I couldn't blame them. I was considering freaking out a little bit myself.

“I need to go buy a truck,” said Ben. “Maybe an RV. Something big enough to house us all for however long we're on the road.”

“I can make a couple of calls,” I said. “Remember Mallory? The Irwin who died last month? Her family's been looking to offload her field wagon. It runs on biodiesel, and it has a shower.” I was willing to do a lot of things in the name of the news. Traveling in a van that didn't have a shower was not one of them. Give me clean hair or give me death.

“Do that,” said Ben. “You can have up to two-thirds of the emergency bank account without consulting with me.”

I nodded. “I think I can get it for half.” Maybe less. Mallory's family had never cared much for her career, but they knew how important it had been to her. Knowing that her rolling fortress was going to be going back into the field instead of being stripped for parts would help them get over losing it.

“This is going to be good for us,” said Audrey. She didn't sound fully convinced.

I reached up and squeezed her ankle. “We're going to make names for ourselves, and then we're going to make so much money that we'll be able to buy the houses on either side. We can start bringing this neighborhood back to life. In the good way, not in the ‘shambling zombie wants to eat your brains' way. We can upgrade the security systems.” And we'd have an RV. I was already starting to think of ways I could make that work for me, once the campaign was done and we were looking to get back to normal.

“People say money doesn't fix everything, but I'm looking forward to proving them wrong,” said Ben. His smile faded. “I just wish this could've happened a month ago. Mama would have loved to know that I'd be taken care of. That my sister will be taken care of. Between her inheritance and me being better off, she's never going to have to worry again.”

“Your mother knows,” I said automatically. Then I grimaced. I've been agnostic at best since leaving Ireland: The Church failed me pretty badly, and I wasn't in the market for a replacement. But old habits die hard, and I'd grown up believing my dead relatives watched everything I did. Somehow this didn't make them all perverts, not even when I'd started experimenting with my sexuality behind the old Tesco warehouse with Siobhan from down the street. There were many aspects of Catholicism that just got stranger when viewed from the outside.

“I hope so,” said Ben, apparently missing the wince. He stood. “I need to start sending emails. We're going to need to steal a play from the Masons and put together a wider team, or there's no way we'll be able to stay on top of this thing once it gets rolling.”

“And since Governor Kilburn is such good friends with ‘Peter,' she'll be watching to make sure that we perform as well as, if not better than, his pet bloggers,” I said, wrinkling my nose. “Oh, goody. That's just what I always wanted: a competition against the golden children. Is it too late for me to change my vote?”

“It was too late the second you came downstairs,” said Ben. “Good night, Ash.”