“So this is Kentucky?” Joe asked Finnegan as she maneuvered him through piles of rubble.

“Yes, Grandpa,” she whispered over the faint muttering of the captive press corps.

“What happened? Is it always this messy?”

“There was a tornado, Grandpa.”

He pulled her closer and she stumbled over a sodden photograph album. “Did any of these people vote for me?” he asked.

“I doubt it,” Finnegan said.

“You not helping him right,” Dr. Jill Biden growled and pushed Finnegan away.

“I’ve got you,” Dr. Jill Biden said, crushing Joe’s arthritic fingers, the swollen joints creaking. She pulled him toward the press corps.

“Walk like you’re the President,” Dr. Jill Biden hissed, trying to pull him out of his stiff-legged stagger.

“W-w-why…” Joe started to ask.

“Because you are the President.”

“I know that, dammit!’ Joe said.

“Don’t get upset,” Dr. Jill Biden said. She felt around in her coat pockets and popped a tasty Biden Treat into his gaping mouth.

“We’re going to need a minute,” Dr. Jill Biden told the press corps. They pointed their cameras at the ground and stopped their iPhones recording. They turned around and those with both hands free plugged their ears.

“They hate it when they have to do that,” Finnegan said, behind Joe and Dr. First Lady.

“As long as they do it, I don’t care!” Dr. Jill Biden snapped, loudly enough for a few of the reporters to flinch like whipped dogs.

“W-w-why…” Joe started again before Dr. Wife Biden popped another treat in his mouth.

“Tornado, Grandpa,” Finnegan said. She pointed at a field of rubble. “That used to be a candle factory.”

“I-I-If,” Joe said, his face bunched and red, “If they voted for Donald, then why did he d-d-do this to them?”

“Donald Trump doesn’t control the weather, dear,” Jillden M.D. whispered.

Joe’s protracted fart rumbled like distant thunder.