Josh Alexander joined his wife, and the flashes erupted once again. He was six-one with black hair and the tanned skin of a low-handicap golfer. He was polished in that southern televangelist sort of way. His suits were always a bit shinier than everyone else’s, his hair a bit longish and perfectly styled, and his teeth a few shades too white. This appearance, of course, fit the master plan to split the southern Christian vote, and the polling numbers told them it had worked. A little too well in fact. Their real problem now lay with the base. They felt betrayed, and were threatening to stay home on Election Day.

Ross watched the presidential candidate and his wife pose for the cameras. They stood there smiling, those same forced smiles that Ross had grown to hate. Even so, he kept his own fake smile going and acted like he was admiring the sheer beauty of the super couple. Ross’s wife was back in Connecticut at the bedside of their daughter who was about to give birth to their first grandchild at any moment. It was just as well. She had grown sick of the campaign. It was no joy being outshined at every stop by a woman twenty years her junior.

Alexander finally left his wife’s side and came over to Ross. He stuck out his right hand and clapped Ross on the shoulder with his left.

“How you feeling today, Mr. Vice President?”

“Good, Mr. President.” Ross strained to keep the smile on his face.

Calling each other president and vice president had been Alexander’s idea. The week after the convention, when they’d had their eight point lead, it had been fun. Now it just seemed delusional and childish. Ross still thought they had a chance. He just didn’t think the power of positive thinking was what was going to put them over the top. Five key states were up for grabs. The negative ads were in the can and if they didn’t shrink the gap in the polls by Monday morning, things were going to get real ugly. Ross knew they’d be using those ads against their opponents. It was just a question of whether they started this week or the following. This was going to be a street fight right to the bitter end.