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“Melatonin, huh?” I ask, turning my head so he loses his view. It doesn’t help. A face is what we hold in our memories. It’s our identity. It shows us who we are. Worst of all, two-thirds of face-to-face communication comes from facial expressions. Lose those — which I have — and in the researchers’ words, it’s socially devastating. “I tried it years ago… maybe I’ll give it another shot.”

“I think you like it,” the deputy prime minister says. “Help you feel good.” He turns back to the lit silhouette of the President, but I already hear the shift in his voice. It’s subtle but unmistakable. You don’t need a translator to understand pity.

“I should… I’m gonna go check on that honey and tea,” I say, stepping back from the deputy prime minister. He doesn’t bother turning around.

Making my way through the backstage darkness of the Performing Arts Center, I sidestep between a papier-mâché palm tree and an enormous jagged rock made of plastic and foam — both pieces from the Lion King set which sits further behind the curtain.

“… and countries look to the United States in ways that we still cannot underestimate…” Manning says as he finally segues into the more serious part of his speech.

“… even now, when we’re hated in so many corners of the world,” I whisper to myself.

“… even now, when we’re hated in so many corners of the world…” the President goes on.

The line tells me he’s got forty-one minutes to go in the fifty-seven-minute speech, including the moment thirty seconds from now when he’ll clear his throat and take a three-beat pause to show he’s extra-serious. Plenty of time for a quick break.

There’s another Secret Service agent near the door at the back of the stage. Jay. He’s got a pug nose, squatty build, and the most feminine hands I’ve ever seen.

Nodding hello, he reads the sheen of sweat on my face. “You okay there?” Like everyone, he gives my scars a quick glance.

“Just tired. These Asia flights take it outta me.”

“We’ve all been up, Wes.”

Typical Service. No sympathy. “Listen, Jay, I’m gonna go check on the President’s honey, okay?”

Behind me, onstage, the President clears his throat. One… two… three…

The moment he starts speaking, I shove open the metal soundproof door and head down a long, fluorescent-lit, cement-block hallway that runs back past the dressing rooms. Jay’s job is to fight every perceived and unperceived threat. With forty minutes left to go, the only thing I need to fight is my own exhaustion. Lucky me, I’m in the perfect place for a rumble.

On my right in the empty hallway, there’s a room marked Dressing Room 6. I saw it when we came in. There’s gotta be a couch, or at least a chair in there.

I grip the doorknob, but it doesn’t turn. Same with dressing room 5 right across from it. Crapola. With so few agents, they must’ve locked them for security.

Zigzagging up the hallway, I bounce to dressing rooms 4… 3… 2. Locked, locked, and locked. The only thing left is the big number 1. The bad news is the sign taped to the door:

EMERGENCY USE ONLY

Emergency Use Only is our code for the President’s private holding room. Most people think it’s a place to relax. We use it to keep him away from the handshaking and photographing crowds, including the hosts, who’re always worst of all. Please, just one more picture, Mr. President. Plus the room’s got a phone, fax, fruit, snacks, half a dozen bouquets of flowers (which we never ask for but they still send), seltzer water, Bailao tea, and… as they showed us during the walk-through… a connecting anteroom with a sofa and two ultra-cushy pillows.

I look at the other dressing rooms, then back to the closed metal door that leads to the stage. Jay’s on the other side. Even if I ask, there’s no way he’ll unlock the other dressing rooms. I turn back to the Emergency sign on dressing room 1. My head’s burning; my body’s drenched. No one’ll ever notice (thank you, soundproofing). Plus I’ve got over a half hour until the President’s speech is— No. No, no, no. Forget it. This’s the President’s private space. I don’t care if he won’t notice. Or hear. It’s just… going into his room like that… It’s not right.

But as I turn to leave, I catch a flutter of light under the door. It goes dark, then white. Like a passing shadow. The problem is, the room’s supposed to be empty. So who the hell would—?

Going straight for the doorknob, I give it a sharp twist. If this is that autograph nut from the parking lot… With a click, the door pops open.

As it swings wide, I’m hit with the smell of freshly cut flowers. Then I hear the cackling clang of metal against glass. Chasing the sound, I turn toward the small glass-top coffee table on the left side of the room. An older bald man in a suit but no tie rubs his shin from where he banged it. He’s in mid-hop, but he doesn’t stop moving. He’s rushing right at me.

“Sorry… wrong room,” he says with a slight hint of an accent I can’t quite place. Not British, but somehow European. His head is down, and from the tilt of his shoulder, he’s hoping to squeeze past me in the doorway. I step in front of him, cutting him off.

“Can I help y—?”

He slams into me at full speed, ramming my shoulder with his own. He’s gotta be fifty years old. Stronger than he looks. Stumbling slightly back, I grab the doorjamb and try to stay in front of him. “You nuts?” I ask.

“Sorry… this was… I–I’m in the wrong place,” he insists, keeping his head down and stepping back for another pass. The way he stutters and keeps shuffling in place, I start thinking he’s got more problems than just being in the wrong room.

“This is a private room,” I tell him. “Where’d you—?”

“The bathroom,” he insists. “Looking for the bathroom.”

It’s a quick excuse, but not a good one. He was in here way too long. “Listen, I need to call the Secret Ser—”

Springing forward, he barrels at me without a word. I lean forward to brace myself. That’s exactly what he’s counting on.

I expect him to ram into me. Instead, he turns his foot sideways, pounds his heel down on the tips of my left toes, and grabs me by my wrist. I’m already falling forward. He tugs my wrist even harder, ducking down and letting momentum take care of the rest. Like a freshly spun top, I whip backward into the room, completely off balance. Behind me… the table…

The backs of my calves hit the metal edge, and gravity sends me plunging back toward the wide glass top. I paddle my arms forward to stop the fall. It doesn’t help.

As my back hits the glass, I grit my teeth and brace for the worst. The glass crackles like the first few kernels of popcorn… then shatters like a thunderstorm of raining glass. The coffee table’s smaller than a bathtub, and as I tumble in backward, my head hits the outer metal edge. A jolt of pain runs down my spine, but my eyes are still on the door. I crane my neck up for a better look. The stranger’s already gone… and then… as I stare at the empty doorway… he sticks his head back in. Almost as if he’s checking on me.

That’s when our eyes lock. Contact.

Oh, God. My stomach sinks down to my kneecaps. Th-That’s…

His face is different… his nose rounded… his cheeks more chiseled. I grew up in Miami. I know plastic surgery when I see it. But there’s no mistaking those eyes — brown with a splash of light blue… He… he died eight years ago…

That was Boyle.

3

Wait!”

He takes off in an eyeblink, darting to the left down the hallway — away from the doorway where Jay is. Boyl — whoever he is, he’s smart.