“It is unfair and very discriminatory!” Cracky said loudly down the hall at the hazmat team pressure washing Hunter’s office with bleach. “I bet you never did this to Mike Pence’s office!”

“Loose cocaine?” Hunter said disgustedly. “You know I never touch the stuff.”

Cracky purred and nuzzled against him.

“You’re all I need, Cracky,” Hunter said sweetly.

“He’s still doing it, Grandma,” Finnegan said as they watched him. “I was hoping this was just another one of his bad days. But it’s been a week of crack rock ventriloquism.”

“His behavior at the family picnic for the 4th was way beyond anything acceptable.” Jill was wearing another dress made from poolside loungers. She thought it made her approachable and matronly.

“He tried feeding it a hot dog,” Finnegan said. “And kept making it squeal with delight when he broke off pieces to smoke. And now this… cocaine in the White House…”

Only the soft shuffling across the carpet warned of Joe’s approach. Finnegan and Jill turned to face him; his face was slack and eyes far-away.

“Oh dear, I think they put him on too much Thorazine again,” Jill said. She reached out to take his arm but Joe brushed past her.

“I’m so angry, I could split an atom!” Cracky screamed. Boiling waves of pressured bleach mist had permeated the hallway. Hazmat backed Hunter away from his office with a crackle of a taser and extended the barriers of caution tape and plastic sheeting.

“I would never bring cocaine in the White House,” Hunter told Cracky. “And I would certainly never forget and leave behind cocaine in the White House.”

“The pressure washers are a bit much,” Finnegan said. “This whole section of the residence is going to stink of bleach for months.”

“Your father’s not much for catching subtle hints, dear,” Grandma Jill said, patting Finnegan’s arm.

“Peek-a-boo!” Hunter said, making Cracky disappear up his shirt sleeve.

“I can’t see you!” Cracky sang out, his voice muffled.

“My beautiful son,” Joe said as he draped himself over Hunter like a blanket of wrinkles and folds.