Oscar was still a locus of power, so his krewe was instinctively migrating in his wake. They were “on vacation,” professional political operatives hoping for something to turn up. But the esprit de corps in Oscar’s entourage had all the tensile strength of a fortune cookie.

Oscar fetched his oxblood-leather shoulder satchel and, after mature consideration, tucked in a small nonlethal spraygun. Yosh Pelicanos, Oscar’s majordomo and bagman, passed him a fat debit card. Pelicanos was visibly tired, and still somewhat hungover from the prolonged celebration, but he was up and alert. As Oscar’s official second-in-command, Pelicanos always made it a point to be publicly counted on.

“I’ll go with you,” Pelicanos muttered, hunting for his hat. “Let me get properly dressed.”

“You stay, Yosh,” Oscar told him quietly. “We’re a long way from home. You keep an eye peeled back here.”

“I’ll get a coffee.” Pelicanos yawned, and reflexively clicked on a satellite news feed, erasing a bus window in a gush of networked data. He began hunting for his shoes.

“I’ll go with you!” Norman insisted brightly. “C’mon, Oscar, let me go!” Norman-the-Intern was the campaign’s last remaining gofer. The busy Bambakias campaign had once boasted a full three dozen interns, but all of the campaign’s other unpaid volunteers had stayed behind in Boston. Norman-the-Intern, however, an MIT college lad, had stuck around like a burr, laboring fanatically and absorbing inhuman levels of abuse. The campaign krewe had brought Norman along with them “on vacation,” more through habit than through any conscious decision.