it teetered to a stop against the mantel. “How do you think he is? He’s dying.”
“You’re right,” Graham said. “Dumb question.”
He took his uncle Sal’s offered hand and gave it a squeeze.
“Who’s back there with him?” he thought to ask, noting that all the principals appeared to be out here.
“Just the nurse,” George said.
“Giving him a sponge bath,” Sal Jr. added. He gave the fire another poke, prodding a piece of wood until it birthed a new flame, and then looked up at Graham. “He’ll pass anytime now, and she thinks he needs a sponge bath.”
No one said anything, as if granting the activity in the back room the absurdity it surely deserved.
“They can still sense what’s going on around them, you know,” Ben offered from his spot on the couch. “They say that people in comas can hear and feel things, even if they can’t move.”
None of the three other Baxter men said anything, but Sal Jr. looked over and offered a small smile. None of them cared enough to point out that the elder Sal wasn’t actually in a coma, but in an opiate-induced state that had placed him far beyond the reach of even the most determined of his senses. Ben’s wife placed a hand on her husband’s thigh and gave it a gentle pat, and with a sheepish smile Ben leaned back into the couch.
“I’ve already called your brother,” George said.
Graham nodded, but the doorbell rang before he could say anything.
Edward left to answer it.
“You expecting anybody else?” George asked Sal Jr.
“Nope. Near as I can tell, everyone’s here,” his brother answered. He was still working the fire, tapping the gutted wood with the poker until, finally, one of the load-bearing pieces gave way, bringing others down in a small cloud of ash and burning embers. One of these latter made an erratic escape from the firebox and aimed itself for George’s leg.
Graham’s father watched as it gained altitude and then as it started to float down. “If that lands on me, you know where I’m going to stick that poker?”
The three of them watched the ember descend and, at the last second, catch some small draft that sent it floating harmlessly to the hearth.
“Is that what passes for entertainment up here?” asked a voice from behind Graham.
When Graham turned, it was to find his uncle Edward standing next to a short man in an expensive suit. His uncle alternated his gaze between the stranger and the three other Baxter men, as if trying to convey to them without words that he had no idea how this man had worked his way past his defenses and into the middle of a family gathering. Graham, though, knew that nothing Edward could have attempted, short of brandishing a weapon, would have been able to deter a man with a long history of insinuating himself into places he didn’t belong. That was one of the reasons Graham had hired him. That, and the many bars they’d hit together during their time at Stanford.
“Hello, Daniel.”
“Hello, Senator,” the man said, extending a hand.
Graham took it with a chuckle. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Then, to his family, “This is Daniel Wolfowitz.”
Bringing on a new campaign manager with only three months left in the race had been a gamble, but the last thirty days had proven the wisdom of the decision. For the first time since announcing his candidacy, the polls showed Graham with a slim lead over the incumbent. It was one of Daniel’s most valuable skills—the ability to take a mechanism with countless moving parts and improve its performance. He was a systems guy, and he’d come in and optimized Graham’s political machine. Of course the money helped too, but even that had been Daniel’s handiwork.
At the introduction, heads nodded, although Edward still looked unsure about the non-familial interruption. With as busy as the last month had been, this was Daniel’s first visit to Ade- lia, which marked him as a stranger, despite what he’d done for Graham.
Daniel set his briefcase down and crossed to the fire. “It’s cold out there,” he said, rubbing his hands together, then blowing on them for good measure.
“Cold? It’s fifty-eight degrees outside,” Edward protested. He looked around at the others, as if soliciting support for this little nugget gleaned from the early morning news. “There won’t be frost for another few weeks.”
“This couldn’t happen at a better time,” Daniel went on, too focused on his topic to pay any attention to Edward. He