Washington, D. C., Sunday…

Roger Preston didn't like Washington much. In summer it was swampy; in the winter it was icy. His Hoosier state was much better. Born in Terre Haute, he hadn't left it until he won his first bid for Congress. Being a senator required even more time away from his beloved state.

He knew the Northeastern liberals often called Middle America 'the flyover zone', referring to the planes that crisscrossed the country back and forth, flying over the Midwestern states for the most part. There was a lot of truth to it, of course, but the phrase ignored a very important fact: Presidential elections were often won in Middle America. The urban sprawl around Chicago had made both Illinois and Indiana important states to be reckoned with. Preston had often leveraged that to his benefit.

He sipped his iced tea by his pool and wondered if tomorrow he should go into his office. As one of the senior members of the Senate, he had a nice one, but he knew work was waiting for him there. Yes, maybe tomorrow he'd make at least an appearance. Right now he would just lie here and try to think of ways to solve more pressing problems.

He really didn't trust the others. Maybe they were capable but they had made mistakes. Too many mistakes could spell disaster.

His wife waved to him from the diving board. He estimated that the board was smarter than she was but she was good to look at, and that's what counted. At thirty-three, she had a perfect body and was not letting herself go, either. Not like the two before. They had cost him, in both alimony and votes, but a senator had connections that led to lucrative business deals. He could afford the alimony and the votes were still enough to keep him in office.