"What about tomorrow's speech, Senator?"

"Senator, will you be commenting on any personal romantic relationship developing between you and Francesca Waverly? One of the tabloids has allegedly received some pictures—"

As usual, the barrage of shouted questions followed Senator Jonathan Warner up the aisle toward the restricted section of his Boeing 757. He calculated the number of steps between him and a chance to relax—less than ten, he thought—and wondered how soon he could get to the other side of that precious divide.

A smarter man would've kept his butt up there in the front of the plane, where it was safe, rather than come back here and spend a few minutes with the press corps, but he'd been riding the high after the campaign rally in Detroit and wanted to see what kind of feedback he'd get from the press.

But then one answered question had turned to five, and now it was after midnight and he hadn't begun to prepare for tomorrow's events, much less sleep. Sleep. Ha. He remembered it well. Something about getting in a bed, putting your head down on a pillow and closing your eyes.

Unfortunately, he'd given up the idea of sleep for the duration, and so had his cohorts here. Everyone on the jet was bleary-eyed and exhausted, and since the primary season was just getting under way, the widespread sleep deprivation would get a whole lot worse before it got better.

Pausing, he glanced back over his shoulder into the bright lights of various camcorders, pushed his rolled shirtsleeve past his watch to check the time—12:39 a.m. now, wonderful—and considered which, if any, of the additional questions he should answer.

The pause, naturally, gave the re