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Audrey and John were sunk in a deep discussion of the virtues of the various types of whiskey when I hopped back out of the RV. Amber turned to me, a questioning expression on her face.

“Well?” she asked.

“He's getting some clothes on and he'll be right out, he swears,” I said. “Can we wait just a few more minutes?”

“How about you wait just a few more minutes, and I'll take Ms. Wen with me to escort the governor inside?” suggested John. “That way, she can do that weird ‘filming everything' you people are so obsessed with, but the governor doesn't have to keep sitting around waiting for her pet reporters to get out of bed.”

I thought about protesting that this stop hadn't been on the schedule, making Ben's nap entirely reasonable and not something he should be teased about. I dismissed the idea just as fast. John was on our side, as much as any member of the governor's camp could be said to be “on our side.” This wasn't important enough to risk messing that up. “Sounds good to me. Audrey, does that work for you?”

“Who do you think suggested it?” She leaned up and over to plant a kiss on my cheek. “See you in the strip club.”

“I've got singles,” I chirped, causing her to roll her eyes in exasperation before she followed John away from the RV, back across the blacktop toward the governor's tour bus. I watched them go. They were laughing again within ten feet of leaving us.

Amber stepped up next to me. “You know, if I were you, I might find a way to have a date night in all this crazy. You, her, a bottle of wine, a reminder that you really do love her more than you love your beard…”

“Huh?” I turned to look at her. “What are you talking about?”

“Just that you may have the whole ‘hot femme' thing sewn up, which clearly does it for your girl, but
no
girl likes to be ignored, and John doesn't ignore her.” Amber shrugged. “I'm not saying she's cheating on you—”

“You'd better not be. Audrey would never do that, and I'm morally obligated to defend her honor.”

“—but I
am
saying maybe she's going to remember she deserves better if you don't step up your game. You're traveling America with a political campaign. You're seeing things most people are happy to leave on paper.” Amber gestured to the desert surrounding us, and for the first time, I really registered the fact that we were standing in the open without a fence. Nothing protected us from roving undead, because nothing
needed
to. Any zombies who found themselves in this unforgiving landscape would most likely die a second, final time before they did any damage.

It was amazing. It was exhilarating. And it was something I'd completely missed in my eagerness to make sure everyone was where they needed to be.

“After this meeting is over, I'm taking a stick and finding a rattlesnake to irritate,” I said. “And when we reach our next stop, I'm taking my girl out for dinner.”

“Sounds like a plan,” said Amber.

The RV door banged open, cutting off any further conversation about my relationship with Audrey. I wasn't sure whether I should be grateful or annoyed as Ben descended to the pavement. He was wearing fresh-pressed tan slacks and a white button-down shirt. Beads of water gleamed on his hair. They were the only sign that he'd been asleep up until recently; he looked as alert and awake as a man who'd been up for hours.

“I'm here,” he said. There was a beat, and then he asked, “Where are Mat and Audrey?”

“Mat's with Chuck, presumably, so no one knows, and Audrey went in with the governor's team, so she could film the arrival for you,” I said. “Amber's going to walk us over.”

“Hi, Sleeping Beauty,” said Amber, looking amused by her own joke. “Does either of you need anything else before we move? A frosty beverage, a shower, a bucket of tarantulas…?”

“Tarantulas are too fragile,” I said. “You can't really have any fun with them without killing them, and that's not fair. They never did anything to me.”

Amber blinked, apparently trying to decide how seriously she needed to take my response. Then she shook her head and said, “Follow me,” before beginning to stride across the blacktop toward the building.

I produced my mag—replaced and newly updated by Mat—and settled it on my face before following her, setting it to record with a tap of my finger. However much useless footage I got, it would all be worth it if I found one image worth using. Ben trailed along behind, his recorder already out in his hand, murmuring impressions and shorthand comments into the microphone. We were ready to work.

Two of the governor's security people were standing by the door, along with two security agents I didn't know. The new agents were wearing sensible button-down shirts in impressively bright neon colors, one in pink, and the other in electric green. I grinned. “Congresswoman Wagman's detail, I assume?”

Electric green produced a blood testing unit from her pocket and held it out to me. “Please place your thumb on the panel,” she said.

Pink was doing the same with Ben. He was a big man, and dwarfed my companion without trying. I looked him over, getting a good shot for my records, and did the same with electric green as I pressed my thumb down.

“It's a good color for you,” I said. “Do you get to pick, or did she assign one to each of you? Because if you get to pick, you might want to try a bright blue next time. It would really make your eyes pop.” Flirting was an automatic thing for me, a nervous tic that kicked in when I was going into a new situation. Amber's comments about Audrey and John were echoing at the back of my mind, putting my nerves on edge. Being a good reporter is hard. Sometimes I feel like being a good girlfriend is even harder.

The light on the testing unit flashed green. The security agent pulled the little plastic box away. “You're clear to enter,” she said.

“Oh happy day,” I said, stepping to the side to join Ben. Amber was still being tested: The downside of traveling in groups of more than two. I nudged him with my elbow. “You ready for this?”

“I'm just glad you woke me.” His eyes were constantly in motion, documenting every inch of the building, just in case there was some seemingly unimportant detail that he could pull out and turn into a believable narrative hook. For someone so quiet and seemingly harmless, Ben could be a devastating weapon when he wanted to be. A lot of that was his refusal to ever stop
looking
at things. Even on death's door, he would still be looking, and more importantly—more dangerously—he would still be
seeing
.

“Anytime,” I said.

Ben flashed me a smile as Amber walked over to join us. “Now that we're all confirmed as among the living, I want to give you two a couple of ground rules,” she said. “The governor and the congresswoman have been friends for some time—that whole ‘female solidarity' thing. They will be calling each other by their first names. The congresswoman can be extremely informal when she's at home, and may encourage you to do the same. You will not do the same. While you are grown adults and free to consume whatever you like, we recommend against drinking anything the congresswoman or her staff mixes for you, as they have the alcohol tolerance of professional boozehounds. No uncensored nudity is to be posted in any of your reports. No nudity at all without clearance forms. Am I clear?”

“We're not amateurs, ma'am,” said Ben. “I appreciate the reminder, but there was nothing there I didn't already know.”

“Ah, but now I've reminded you, and no one can conveniently ‘forget,'” said Amber, and winked at me.

“Spoil all my fun,” I grumbled.

“Don't worry,” she said. “There's more fun to be had.” Then, with all the solemnity of a magical candy maker in a children's movie, she pushed the door open and revealed the club on the other side.

At first glance, the place was exactly as seedy and without redeeming qualities as the outside had promised. The floor was plain, polished wood, with drifts of sawdust piled here and there in the corners. There were at least five stages I could see, and thanks to some clever construction work that prevented any door from having a clear line of sight on the entire club, there were probably another five stages I
couldn't
see, obscured by this retaining wall or that spiral staircase. There were four bars, each with their own tap system and back-bar covered in bottles of booze.

Second glance started picking out details. Like how everything was spotless, and the air smelled of pine and rosemary, not anything less savory. Our footsteps echoed in the dull way that meant we were walking on treated plastic, not actual dead trees, which would make the whole place easier to sterilize and less likely to lead to infection. The poles—of course there were poles, a place like this
screamed
for poles—were polished to a mirror-sheen, and the stages were raised enough that no one was going to succeed in grabbing a dancer who didn't want to be grabbed. It was a mousetrap, decorated to look like the bottom of the barrel when in reality, everything was top-of-the-line.

“Cameras on every inch of the building,” I said, eyes tracing the complicated network of wires, cables, and recording devices mostly hidden beneath the decorative molding around the edges of the room. “That's a panic button cable. See, the gray one? That's going to connect to a private internal lockdown system. I want one for my bedroom.”

Amber turned to look at me quizzically. “You can tell that from the wiring?”

“Security systems are a hobby of Audrey's which makes them a hobby of mine. Find the panic button, isolate this whole room in military-spec Plexiglas paneling. I wish I could trigger the system just to see it work.”

“Please don't,” said a female voice, from behind me. “It's a devil to reset, and my insurance gets cranky every time it goes off.”

I turned. The speaker was tall, curvy, and perfect in the way that only lots of money, excellent plastic surgeons, and an image consultant with a degree in graphic design could ever hope to achieve. Her hair was a deep burgundy, like lava, offsetting the deep blue of her eyes, which were expertly lined and shadowed until they seemed twice as big as they could possibly have been. She was wearing blue jeans and a jersey shirt with three-quarter sleeves. On her, that seemed like the most fashionable thing that had ever existed, the style that every woman should have been aspiring to.

Moments like this were why I'd never wanted to become a Newsie. I could never have mustered the self-control. “Holy shit, you're gorgeous,” I said.

Congresswoman Wagman burst out laughing. “Oh my God, Amber, baby, what did you bring me? The last honest journalist in the West?”

“Actually, ma'am, I'm the honest one; Ash is the one who doesn't have any filters,” said Ben. He extended his hand. “It's an honor to meet you, Congresswoman.”

“All right, you can stay,” said Congresswoman Wagman. She took his hand and shook it, studying his face before she returned her attention to me. “What are your names, little honest journalists?”

“Aislinn North,” I said.

“Ben Ross,” said Ben.

“I resent the implication that there are no honest journalists left,” said a man, stepping up to our group. He looked to be in his mid to late thirties, with sandy brown hair, blue eyes, and the sort of casual posture some people would see as disinterested and others would see as harmless. I saw it a third way: dangerous. Men who'd reached his age without developing a razor's edge behind their eyes weren't innocent: They were just very, very good at concealing their natural defenses. And they were frequently capable of doing damn near anything to get their way.

“Oh, Ricky, you know I didn't mean you,” purred the congresswoman. She waved a casual hand at the man, and said, “Richard Cousins, head of my little press pool. He makes sure I look good in the news, or at least not terrible.”

“It would be easier if you'd answer criticisms of your public image with something other than videos of your ass,” said Richard. Now he just sounded tired. Maybe he wasn't as dangerous as I'd first suspected; maybe he'd reached the point where he needed to turn to bourbon as a means of handling his life choices. That was a valid developmental stage for many Newsies.

Not so many Irwins. Bourbon was swell and all, but it was also a quick route to getting eaten. I did not endorse any coping mechanism that was likely to end with dismemberment and wearing your inside bits on your outsides.

Congresswoman Wagman made a scoffing sound. I could actually
hear
the scorn. My love for her grew stronger. “Sweetie, my ass is why the people who don't normally vote for anyone will come out and vote for me. I say ‘this is what you'll get,' and they know I'm telling the truth, so they go ahead and throw in their endorsement. So yeah, you're going to keep getting it. Now.” She waved a hand at us. “These nice folks are visiting with Suzy. You should show them around, let them get some footage of things they think are interesting, and keep them out from underfoot.”

“Are you trying to get rid of them, or get rid of me?” asked Richard. I couldn't think of him as a “Ricky.” Maybe “Rick,” if he lightened up a bit, but that was as far as I was willing to go.

“Aw, Ricky.” Congresswoman Wagman dimpled. I considered sending a thank-you note to her plastic surgeon, who must have spent months figuring out that precise muscle movement. “I'm getting rid of all three of you. Now shoo. Amber, you're with me.”

“Yes, ma'am,” said Amber.

“Um, we have two more team members,” said Ben. “Audrey Wen and Mat Newson. Have you already sent them both packing?”

Congresswoman Wagman looked blankly at him before turning to Amber.

“Cute Chinese girl and skinny genderfluid makeup artist,” said Amber.