“I can feel the COVIDs in me,” Joe said. “It’s like bugs are running around in my insides.” He was lying on the floor of the Oval Office TV set and shivering.

“You’re fine, Grandpa,” Finnegan said, her face a kabuki mask of concealer and foundation. “There’s no COVID.”

“Jill has it!” he moaned.

“Grandma is fine,” Finnegan said tiredly. “It’s just that the election season is starting up.”

“I hate elections,” Joe said. “I don’t want to go to Iowa again. I hate Iowa. There’s so many white people.” He rolled over on his side and struggled to stand up, levering himself off the floor with the brittle limbs of winter.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Finnegan said. “Paco! Paco, get in here!”

A large man, scarred and muscular, stepped out of the shadows stage right and picked up Joe like he weighed nothing. He sat him in his set-dressing office chair and stalked off stage.

“That’s-s-s the biggest Puerto Rican I’ve ever seen,” Joe said.

“Don’t say that, Grandpa. The P-word and the R-word are offensive,” Finnegan admonished him.

“Puerto Rican is offensive?” Joe asked.

“Grandpa! What if there was someone filming you right now? There would be a huge scandal!”

“What am I supposed to call Puerto Rico now?”

“Puerto Rico is still Puerto Rico but a Puerto Rican is an Americano Islandinan.”

“I hate it here,” Joe said sadly.

“You’re speaking really well right now, Grandpa,” Finnegan said, lint-rolling his suit jacket, face and neck. “We should probably do this shoot before we take you to the G20 summit briefing.”

“I don’t want to get a shot,” Joe said, already rubbing his arm.

“It’s not a real shot,” Finnegan said. “I’m just going to press a syringe to your arm and we’ll take a few pictures.”

“Where are we?” Joe asked.

“We are in the Oval Office TV studio, Grandpa,” Finnegan said for the seventh time.

“Where is Jill?” Joe asked.

“She’s hiding from the press because she is supposed to have COVID again.”

“Jill is sick?”

“No, Grandpa. But we need to start this photoshoot.”

“Where are we?” Joe asked again.