The moment Thomas fell into sleep, he awakened. Washington, D.C. He’d slept the night in the White House, but he’d lived . . . Thomas counted them off in his mind, one, two, three, four . . . four days in the desert, rescuing Chelise. To what end? To return to the city alone. To end up here, in this mess of a world. He was tempted to knock himself out and return to the larger matter at hand. Chelise. He forced his mind to focus on this world. He’d learned some things about Carlos and the Frenchman, hadn’t he? Yes, from Johan. The reality of the virus swelled in his mind. They were down to a couple of days. Carlos was the key. He swung his legs to the floor, walked to the door, and stopped short with the sudden realization that he hadn’t pulled on his jeans. Wouldn’t do to run through the White House in blue-striped boxer shorts. He dressed, brushed his teeth with a disposable toothbrush he found in the bathroom, and exited the room. It took him seven minutes to gain a private audience with the president.
