“I always wanted to be a wartime president,” Joe said, standing at the fake window in the tv studio Oval Office set, looking out wistfully.

He turned, a little shuffling circle and said, “Hello America. I’m your Joe Biden.”

“I know how concerned you are about Putin’s inflation and the Republican recession and the horrible price of gas. Gas. Gas. It’s a weird word when you think about it, isn’t it? Anyway, I just want you to know that my Administration had nothing to do with any of this. I got the jab, you should get the jab too.”

“Who are you talking to, Grandpa?” Finnegan asked as she walked onto the set.

“Can you hear the audience clapping?” Joe asked her. “They love you.”

“There is no audience, Grandpa.”

“They just love you. How many more years until you can run for President?”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be President,” Finnegan said. She tore open a little white square and smoothed a fresh nicotine patch over Joe’s carotid artery.

“Did you just put a condom on my neck?” he asked.

“It’s to help you out, give you energy,” she said.

“You-you-you could be the first woman President,” Joe said.

“I’d hope there would be a woman President before then,” Finnegan said.

“First white woman President?” Joe asked, shuffling around to the window again.

“You have a spinal fluid replacement this afternoon and an axion bombardment in the morning,” Finnegan said.

“I don’t know why I bother,” Joe said, fingering the patch on his neck.

“It’s to keep you healthy,” Finnegan said. “Your country needs you.”

“Does it? I just get so angry sometimes. Putin! That damn Putin!”

“You need to calm down,” Finnegan said.

“I get blamed for everything!” Joe shouted.

Finnegan tried to peel off the nicotine patch but Joe pulled away.

“And-and-and the press! They’re just so mean to me!”

“Grandpa, just let me take the patch off,” Finnegan said.

“Get away from me!” Joe screamed.

Finnegan tapped her watch. “Grey Lady Down, Grey Lady Down.”

She danced away from Joe until she heard the medical team approach.