“Moist,” Joe muttered to himself. “Moist, moist, moist, moist.”

Finnegan lay across the Oval Office couch scrolling through her phone, doing her best to ignore Joe as he marched stiffly around the room, arms up, pugilistic, hands in death-white fists.

“I don’t know,” Finnegan said as Karine walked into the room, before she could say anything. “He’s been like this all morning.”

“Moist,” Joe said, stopping in front of Karine. “Moist,” he said, leaning in, his breath on her neck. Horripilation ran up her arms.

“The medical staff have no idea what’s wrong,” Finnegan said, anticipating her second question as well.

Karine side-stepped Joe, blank faced, and moved away to sit on the couch by Finnegan’s feet.

“I never want to go back to Philadelphia,” Joe said, interrupting his chanting.

“Is that a good sign?” Karine whispered.

“I have no idea,” Finnegan whispered back.

“It smelled weird there and the ice cream tasted funny,” Joe continued. “Like cabbage and titty sweat.”

“When were you in Philadelphia?” Finnegan asked, sitting up.

“Monday! Monday!” Joe said. “Titty sweat! Big titties!”

“He means Ukraine,” Finnegan said to Karine.

“That wasn’t Philadelphia, Grandpa,” Finnegan said to Joe. “That was Keev.”

“Keev?” Joe asked. “What the fuck it that?”

“Kiev, Mr. President,” Karine told him.

“Like the chicken?” Joe asked, suddenly enraged.

“I told them that running him on all those uppers since the State of the Union was a terrible idea,” Finnegan hissed.

“He had to go to Ukraine for President’s Day; we promised,” Karine said.

“And if he stroked out on that rattletrap Polish train? Or while Zelensky was having a city-wide rave with fake air raid sirens? Did Zelensky need him to visit that badly? How much money does he think he’s going to get without my Dad to pimp for him and Grandpa to cover?”

“Moist, moist,” Joe said and cupped Finnegan’s buttocks and she groaned loudly.

“Are you finally 18?” Joe asked her in a hoarse whisper.

“Don’t make me call your wife,” Finnegan said tersely.

“Corn Pop asked me to marry him,” Joe said sadly, letting go of his granddaughter. “But I knew I’d never be President with a Black husband.”

“Mr. President, what are you saying?” Karine asked. “This could be an amazing pivot for 2024.”

“I beat him with a pool chain,” Joe said, antique yellow tears dribbling from his eyes. “I’m so ashamed.”

“It’s OK, Grandpa,” Finnegan said as she guided him to the loveseat. “That sort of thing still happens. We just call it ‘ghosting.'”