"Good evening, Mr. President."

"Hey, Sam. Would you like a drink? Have a seat..."

Another SUV passes by. This one is navy blue. The third one in ten minutes, the eighth one in the last hour. One black, one green, one blue, two red, two silver and one white. This last one stands out in the street traffic like some awkward oversized beast.

I wonder if my jeep looks like that too in traffic. Stands out. Doesn't fit in. Oddity. Never really thought of that before. I've always thought that it looks fine in the White House parking lot, next to CJ's blue convertible, Toby's burgundy Dodge Dart, and Leo's golden Sedan. But now, I'm not so sure. Maybe it has always stood out, and I just never noticed.

"Sam, around ten years ago, for a period of a few months, I was feeling rundown and I had a pain in my leg. They both eventually subsided, but then eight years ago..."

It's getting a little chilly, a little wet. The temperature has dropped substantially since sunset several hours ago. The cool air feels heavy and carries the smell of rain. Typical of spring weather. I should've gone back to my office for the coat before I left.

"I'll be here in my office when you're done."

But I didn't.

I can't. Josh and Toby are waiting in Toby's office. They will laugh at me, for wanting to wear my coat in late spring, for being a thin-blooded Californian. Besides, they'll want to talk. About it. And I don't. I don't know what to say. I don't have anything to say. I can fool the president and Leo with my legal facts and previous case outcomes, with my pretence of professionalism, but Josh and Toby know. They will be able to tell. They will want to talk about it. I don't. I can't. My brain is not working. So I go for a walk, hoping the cool air will clear my head. I'm shivering a little now, but my brain still refuses to be reasonable.

Another Toyota. That makes it one BMW, one Chevrolet, two Fords, one Honda, one Mercedes, one Suzuki, and two Toyota. Too many foreign brands. We really ought to encourage Americans to buy more local vehicles.

The concrete stairs I am sitting on no longer feel cold. My legs are probably asleep by now. But then, it feels cold because heat is transferred from my body to the stairs once I sit down. Now that the temperatures of the two get closer, the transfer of heat slows down, and so the stairs don't feel so cold anymore. That's probably the real reason. That and my legs are numb. I feel numb, too, like my legs. Actually, that's a pretty ironic way of describing how I feel. Numb - adjective - lack of feeling. But in fact I have plenty of feelings: swirling in my head clenching of my stomach confusion anger exhaustion disappointment just to name a few. And yet, I feel empty. Detached. Numb. It's almost like I am dreaming. Maybe I have fallen asleep on Toby's couch again, and he will come wake me up any minute now.

"I have a relapsing/remitting course of MS, Sam. I have Multiple Sclerosis."

Or not.

Multiple Sclerosis. Medical terminology. Three syllables each.

Multiple Sclerosis. It is a disease in which the nerves of the central nervous system degenerate. As more and more nerves are affected, a patient experiences a progressive interference with functions that are controlled by the nervous system such as vision, speech, walking, writing, and memory. Fifty percents of MS patients experience mental changes such as decreased concentration, attention deficits, some degree of memory loss, or impairment in judgment. I remember reading about it from somewhere.

Memory loss. Impairment in judgments. Attention deficits. One in two patients.

The President has MS. For the better part of the past decade.

And we are little over a week away from telling the people of America about it. The same people who elected him to be the leader of free world, to be the President of United States. Without the benefit of knowledge that he has a degenerative neurological illness.

He is supposed to be the real thing.

Isn't he? He does his job, and he does it well. He is the one who has MS. It is his business and no one else's. It shouldn't change anything. But it just isn't right. He didn't even give the voters a choice. He made the choice for them. He has responsibilities to the Democratic Party, to the entire nation. They deserved to be given the chance of making an informed choice. We deserved to be told before leaving everything behind and join the campaign.

He's supposed to be the real thing.

I have always thought there are things in life that I can be certain of. My family was one. Turned out that we've been living a lie for twenty-eight years. Me being a good friend was another one. Turned out that Josh was suffering from PTSD right under my nose and I didn't do a thing to help him until it was too late. I've always thought that this administration was making a difference, turned out that we can't really save people on death row, overhaul the education system nor can we do much about people killing each other with guns.

I deal with them, and life goes on.

But I was so certain of President Bartlet. I was so sure.

I just don't know anything anymore.

"Sam!"

Josh. What's he doing here?

"Sam?"

"Yes, Josh."

"What the hell are you doing sitting outside my apartment?"

Excellent question.

"Sam? Are you alright?"

"Yeah." I nodded. I'm not injured, if that's what he's asking.

"Kay." Josh frowned. "Toby and I were looking for you. We thought you were somewhere in the building, 'cause your coat and briefcase are still in the office. The guard told us that you left."

"I came out for a walk."

He nodded, and glanced around the street. "So, you know."

"I was told."

Josh nodded again. A moment of awkward silence.

"I wanted to tell you sooner, but Toby thought - "

"It's fine." No, it's not. But I'm too tired to give a damn right now.

Josh sits down on the stairs beside me.

"Sam - "

"This is going to be bad."

"Yeah."

"There'll be investigations. There'll be hearings. We'll be subpoenaed. They are going to eat us alive."

"Or die trying."

"No kidding."

For a few minutes, we sit there and watch the quiet traffic. Then Josh put his hand on my knee.

"Have you eaten yet?"

I shake my head.

"Me neither. Come in, Sam. We'll order pizza." He stands up, then looks at me and smiles. "I guarantee you'll feel better after some coffee."

"Yeah." I slowly stand up, wincing as the circulation rushes back to my legs, and follow him.

I hope he is right.