northwestern Colorado.
“Brrr,” I said.
“Mmm,” Michelle agreed.
She pushed back from the table, pointed the remote control at the TV, and switched it to her favorite morning news program, Breakfast with America .
Hosts Sid Keats and Charlotte Dunn welcomed their guest, Senator Avery Lawrence, to the show. They began talking about the senator’s presidential aspirations in the next year. He didn’t say he would run. Nevertheless, he was obviously leaving the door wide open.
Michelle asked me to pass the grape jelly.
Host Sid Keats queried the senator on his position concerning China. Avery replied, saying he would stand tenaciously against giving a Presidential waiver allowing Normal Trade Relations — formally known as Most Favored-Nation Status — to a government so deaf to human rights.
“What do you think, hon’ — our next President?” Michelle asked between bites. She frowned as she chewed.
I grunted. I wasn’t too excited about the possible candidates — actually, at that moment I couldn’t remember any of them.
Michelle said, “He’s pushing that big bill he sponsored in the Senate to lower taxes with across-the-board cuts. That means no more government funding for stem cell and spinal cord regeneration research. He’s also pretty heavy handed with insurance companies. I heard a news story last week that said if he got elected, insurance companies are likely to disallow any kind of payment toward operations that seem in the least bit experimental.” Michelle’s brow was drawn, face full of concern.
I hadn’t heard about either of those things. Just last week, Dr. Xiang had given us hope — telling us that we’d received the acceptance letter from Bethesda Hospital in Washington, DC. All Will needed now was to pass some tests — the results of which we were to discover at our appointment this afternoon. The mending of Will’s severely damaged spinal cord depended on the yet experimental regeneration procedure done in the U.S. only at Bethesda. It was likely to cost hundreds of thousands of dollars that we didn’t have. I gritted my teeth. A powerful rush surged through my body, and my fork dropped from my hand and clattered onto the plate.
The thought of Senator Avery standing in the way of William being able to walk again seemed to trigger a stabbing pain in my temple and the base of my skull tingled. I glared up at the TV as a gush of what seemed like fire rushed up my backbone.
The back of the television exploded with a flash. It flared twice. Sparks showered out in a fiery fountain. The tube went blank as the light above the sink popped, and its fragments chimed into the stainless-steel basin below.
Chapter 5
U.S. President Francis Allen Mason gazed into the dim light from the tinted, bulletproof picture window of his study in Upstate New York. Three years ago, at the age of forty-five, he was elected as the youngest U.S. President aside from Theodore Roosevelt and John F. Kennedy. During the election, his athletic nature, charm and youthful looks had elicited a comparison to Kennedy, and the media coined him “the Republican’s JFK.” Such visual ties to one of America’s most honored statesmen and heroes opened the door to connotations of strong leadership, good judgment and political savvy. Mason had tried hard to live up to these high marks. He now stood rigidly, his hands clasped behind his back as he waited.
The window of the President’s ranch-style summer home faced the rolling foothills that quickly grew into the Adirondacks. Three Secret Service agents had taken position within easy view from that window, and the President knew at least a dozen more were within a stone’s toss.
Surrounded by six hundred acres of wooded hills, the home was the quietest place he knew, making it his favorite locale for a little R and R . Modestly decorated with cornflower-blue country curtains, family heirlooms and antiques, it was as comfortable as the worn
“Brrr,” I said.
“Mmm,” Michelle agreed.
She pushed back from the table, pointed the remote control at the TV, and switched it to her favorite morning news program, Breakfast with America .
Hosts Sid Keats and Charlotte Dunn welcomed their guest, Senator Avery Lawrence, to the show. They began talking about the senator’s presidential aspirations in the next year. He didn’t say he would run. Nevertheless, he was obviously leaving the door wide open.
Michelle asked me to pass the grape jelly.
Host Sid Keats queried the senator on his position concerning China. Avery replied, saying he would stand tenaciously against giving a Presidential waiver allowing Normal Trade Relations — formally known as Most Favored-Nation Status — to a government so deaf to human rights.
“What do you think, hon’ — our next President?” Michelle asked between bites. She frowned as she chewed.
I grunted. I wasn’t too excited about the possible candidates — actually, at that moment I couldn’t remember any of them.
Michelle said, “He’s pushing that big bill he sponsored in the Senate to lower taxes with across-the-board cuts. That means no more government funding for stem cell and spinal cord regeneration research. He’s also pretty heavy handed with insurance companies. I heard a news story last week that said if he got elected, insurance companies are likely to disallow any kind of payment toward operations that seem in the least bit experimental.” Michelle’s brow was drawn, face full of concern.
I hadn’t heard about either of those things. Just last week, Dr. Xiang had given us hope — telling us that we’d received the acceptance letter from Bethesda Hospital in Washington, DC. All Will needed now was to pass some tests — the results of which we were to discover at our appointment this afternoon. The mending of Will’s severely damaged spinal cord depended on the yet experimental regeneration procedure done in the U.S. only at Bethesda. It was likely to cost hundreds of thousands of dollars that we didn’t have. I gritted my teeth. A powerful rush surged through my body, and my fork dropped from my hand and clattered onto the plate.
The thought of Senator Avery standing in the way of William being able to walk again seemed to trigger a stabbing pain in my temple and the base of my skull tingled. I glared up at the TV as a gush of what seemed like fire rushed up my backbone.
The back of the television exploded with a flash. It flared twice. Sparks showered out in a fiery fountain. The tube went blank as the light above the sink popped, and its fragments chimed into the stainless-steel basin below.
Chapter 5
U.S. President Francis Allen Mason gazed into the dim light from the tinted, bulletproof picture window of his study in Upstate New York. Three years ago, at the age of forty-five, he was elected as the youngest U.S. President aside from Theodore Roosevelt and John F. Kennedy. During the election, his athletic nature, charm and youthful looks had elicited a comparison to Kennedy, and the media coined him “the Republican’s JFK.” Such visual ties to one of America’s most honored statesmen and heroes opened the door to connotations of strong leadership, good judgment and political savvy. Mason had tried hard to live up to these high marks. He now stood rigidly, his hands clasped behind his back as he waited.
The window of the President’s ranch-style summer home faced the rolling foothills that quickly grew into the Adirondacks. Three Secret Service agents had taken position within easy view from that window, and the President knew at least a dozen more were within a stone’s toss.
Surrounded by six hundred acres of wooded hills, the home was the quietest place he knew, making it his favorite locale for a little R and R . Modestly decorated with cornflower-blue country curtains, family heirlooms and antiques, it was as comfortable as the worn
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