Afternoon, Washington D.C., White House.
A rare sunny day.
The sun's so intense it makes one's balls itch.
President Harold Wilkes is enjoying an undisturbed afternoon.
In front of him is a beautifully decorated copy of the "American Bird Atlas," with the automatic sprinkler system on the South Lawn outside creating a small rainbow in the sunlight.
For a fleeting moment, it almost makes one forget the war-torn country beyond.
The door was flung open with such force that the heavy oak door hit the wall with a dull thud.
Wilkes' hand shook, spilling tea onto the Bird Atlas, staining it with a dark brown blot.
His pants were soaked.
Shit...
The one who barged in was his private assistant, a young man named Thomas Keane, in his early thirties who had followed Wilkes for years from the state legislature to the White House.
Considered a confidant.
