They’d shut the doors, and quiet reigned for the briefest of moments inside the West Wing. “What happens now?” George Ellis rubbed a bruised hand over his bald head. “Nothing for now. We’re covering for the president, and as soon as his fever breaks, everything will be fine.” Almost sixty years old, the stately politician filled out his expertly cut suit like he ran five miles a day, which he did. His eyes were a deep brown, his skin a shade darker, and intelligence all but emanated from him. “The fever has lasted longer with him than with the students, but he’s only fifty-five and in great shape.” Deke exhaled. “Even so, fifty-five is different from twenty years old, like it or not. He’s older and it’s not unrealistic to believe it’ll take him a little longer to fight off the infection.” “Don’t tell him that when he’s better.” “What happened to your hand, sir?”
