Her cell phone rang almost as soon as the doctor left them. It was Jack. “Get an interview with him.”

“I can't, Jack. They already told us he won't do it. The man's been in surgery for twelve hours, and they're telling us everything they know.”

“Like hell they are. They're feeding you press kit crap. For all we know he's brain dead.”

“What do you suggest I do? Crawl into Armstrong's room through the heat vent?” She was tired, and annoyed that he was being so unreasonable and so demanding. They were all in the same boat. They had to wait for whatever announcements were made, and harassing the surgeons wasn't going to get them more information.

“Don't be cute, Mad,” Jack said, sounding annoyed. “Do you want to put your viewers to sleep, or are you working for some other network?”

“You know what's happening here. We're all getting the same stuff,” she said, sounding exasperated.

“That's my point. Get something different.” He hung up on her without saying good-bye, and a reporter from a rival network smiled at her and shrugged in sympathy.

“I'm getting the same crap from the head of our newsroom. If they're so smart, why don't they come down here and do it.”

“I'll have to remember to suggest that,” Maddy smiled back at him, and settled into a chair with her coat over her, until the next press announcement.

A team of doctors came back to them at three in the morning, and those who were asleep woke up to hear what they had to tell them. It was more of the same. The President was still holding his own. He had regained consciousness, was still in critical condition, and his wife was with him.

It was a long night, and in spite of another release at five, no one gave them any significant news until seven in the morning. Maddy was awake and drinking coffee by then. She had slept about three hours in disjointed little bits and pieces, and she was feeling stiff from sleeping curled up in a chair all night. It was like spending a night at the airport during the snowstorm.

But at least at seven, the news was a little better. They admitted that he was uncomfortable and in considerable pain, but he had smiled at his wife, and sent his thanks to the nation. And his team of surgeons was extremely pleased with him. And they actually dared to say that they had every reason to believe he was going to make it, barring complications.

And half an hour later, the White House released the identity of the man who had shot him. He was now being referred to as “the suspect,” although half the country had seen reruns of the tape that showed how he had shot the President. The CIA believed that it was not part of a plot to assassinate the President. The suspect's son had been killed in the action in Iraq that summer, and he felt that the President was to blame for it. He was a man with no previous criminal record, no history of violence, or mental instability, but he had lost his only child in a war he didn't understand and didn't care about, and had been depressed ever since. He was in custody, and being watched carefully. The rest of his family was shocked. His wife was apparently hysterical. He had been, until that moment, a respected member of the community, and a reasonably successful accountant. And it saddened Maddy to think about it.

She sent a note to Phyllis Armstrong through one of the press secretaries, just to let her know that she was there, and praying for her. And she was stunned when a note came back from her a few hours later. She had just jotted the words, “Thank you, Maddy. He's doing better, thank God. Love, Phyllis.” But Maddy was enormously touched that she had taken the time to write it.

Maddy went on the air again at noon, with the latest report, that the President was resting comfortably, and although still listed in critical condition, they were hoping that he would soon be out of danger.

“If you don't give me something interesting soon,”

Jack said when he called her after the broadcast, “I'm going to send Elliott over to do it.”

“If he can get anything different than the rest of us can, then send him,” she said, sounding exhausted. For once, she was too tired to be affected by Jack's threats and accusations.

“You're boring me to tears,” he accused her.

“I'm stuck with what they're feeding us, Jack. No one else is getting anything better.” But it didn't stop Jack from calling every few hours and complaining to her. And when Bill called her at one o'clock, she was relieved to hear him.

“When was the last time you ate?” he asked with genuine worry.

“I can't remember,” she smiled. “I'm so tired, I'm not hungry.”

He didn't offer to come by. He just showed up twenty minutes later, with a club sandwich and some fruit, and a couple of soft drinks. He looked like the Red Cross arriving, as he showed up, and picked his way through the sea of reporters in the lobby till he found her, and forced her to sit in a chair and eat while he watched her.

“I can't believe you did this,” she grinned broadly at him. “I didn't even realize it, I was starving. Thank you, Bill.”

“It makes me feel useful.” He was amazed by how many people were there, reporters, cameramen, sound crews, producers, all milling around the hospital lobby. They were spilling out into the street, where the news vans were parked helter skelter. It looked like a disaster area, and it was. And he was pleased that she ate all of her sandwich. “How long are you going to have to stay here?”

“Until he's out of the woods, or we drop, whichever comes first. Jack is threatening to send Elliott to replace me, because my broadcasts are so boring. But there's not much I can do about it.” And as she said the words, the press secretary stepped up to the podium again, and everyone rushed to their feet and pressed forward, and Maddy had to go with them.

This time they told them that it was going to be a long, slow haul, of painstaking progress, and the press secretary suggested that some of them might want to go home, and get spelled off by their colleagues. The President was making a good recovery. There were no complications, and they had every reason to believe that he would continue to improve.

“Can we see him?” someone shouted.

“Not for several days,” the press secretary answered.

“What about Mrs. Armstrong? Can we talk to her?”

“Not yet. She hasn't left her husband's side for a minute. And she's going to stay here until he recovers. She's sleeping right now, and so is he. Maybe you should get some sleep too,” the press secretary said with the first smile they'd seen in twenty-four hours. And then he left, and promised to come back to them in a few hours, as Maddy turned off her microphone and looked up at Bill. She was so tired she could hardly see straight.

“What are you going to do now?” he asked her.

“I'd give my right arm to go home for a shower, but Jack would probably kill me for leaving.”

“Can't he send someone to replace you?” It seemed inhuman to just stay there.

“He could, but I don't think he will. Not yet anyway. Jack wants me here. But I'm not doing anything anyone else couldn't do. You heard what they give us. It's pretty much packaged. They're telling us what they want us to know, but if they're telling the truth, it sounds like he's doing okay.”

“Don't you believe them?” Bill was surprised by her skepticism, but it was her business to be that way, and ferret out any inconsistencies in their story. She was good at that, which was why Jack wanted her to stay there.

“I do,” she said sensibly, “But the truth is, he could be dead for all we know.” It was an awful thing to say, but it was possible certainly. “I don't think they'd lie about it unless they had to for national security. In this case, I think they're being pretty honest. At least I hope so.”

“So do I,” Bill said with fervor.

He stayed with her for another half hour, and then he left. And at three, Jack finally let her off the hook, and told her to go home and change, and come back to the studio for the five o'clock broadcast. She barely had time to do it, and she knew she wouldn't have time for a nap. He had already told her to come back to the hospital after the seven-thirty broadcast. And after she went home and changed into a dark blue pantsuit, she knew she could sleep in on the gurneys for the press at the hospital, she was almost reeling by the time she got to hair and makeup. Elliott Noble was there too, and he looked at her with admiration.

“I don't know how you do it, Maddy. If I'd been at that hospital for the last twenty-seven hours, they'd be carrying me out on a stretcher. You've done a great job there.” Though not according to her husband. But she was touched by the compliment, and knew she'd earned it.

“I'm just used to it, I guess. I've been doing this for a long time.” It made them feel more like colleagues, and she liked him a little better. At least for once he'd been decent to her.

“How do you think the President really is?” Elliott asked her in an undertone.

“I think they're probably telling us the truth on this one,” she answered. And somehow, with his help, she got through the five o'clock broadcast and the seven-thirty and she was back at the hospital at eight-fifteen, just as Jack told her to do. He had stopped in to see her between the two shows, looking fresh and rested, and gave her a whole new set of orders, criticisms, and directions. He didn't even ask if she was tired. He didn't care if she was. This was a crisis and she had to deliver. But she never failed him. And although he didn't acknowledge it, everyone else did. She was one of a few veterans of the first night when she got back to the hospital. Most of the other networks had replaced their people with fresh teams, and she had a new cameraman and a new soundman. And miraculously someone felt sorry for her and brought her a gurney in the lobby, so she could get some sleep between press releases. And when she told Bill about it on the phone, he urged her to use it.