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someone he’d met earlier that day who had said she would “follow up” on their forty-five-second discussion about global warming. “Should I give it to one of the interns?” asked Justin, his twenty-year-old driver, holding up his smartphone. “We said we’d get back to her with the answer.”
    â€œAn intern?” Stephen wondered.
    â€œWho else?”
    â€œThe research director, Stanley, right?”
    â€œHe’ll just give it to them. They put something together, he reads it and sends it out.”
    â€œDoes he ever do his own work?”
    Justin laughed.
    They went into the campaign suite, four rooms filled with rented furniture and computers. It had an empty, impromptu air, as did the entire campaign. Every time he walked through and saw the blank walls, he felt a profound embarrassment. He was thirty-eight, married, well educated, a candidate for Congress and had nothing of consequence to say.
    â€œHey, how’s it going, Mr. Rokeby?” asked the attractive intern from Wellesley, who flirted with him whenever she had the chance.
    â€œNot bad for a Monday.”
    â€œWhat’s going on out there on the trail?”
    â€œGlobal warming. Want to take a crack at putting together a ten-point plan for dealing with it?”
    â€œSure, we’ve got a statement on the site.”
    â€œToo generic. People want specifics, and I want something very detailed. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re having a very hot summer.”
    â€œI noticed. And I’ll work on it.”
    â€œSend me the draft and cc Stanly.”
    His inbox had forty-eight emails, four from Diane Terrien, his reputedly brilliant campaign manager, all with disappointing news. His pregnant wife, Alicia, forwarded various blog posts about the campaign with snide comments about his strategy. “It’s not coming together,” said Alicia. “The comments are so negative. Cronin-Reynolds has the party people. Who has Stephen got?”
    Alicia wanted him to drop out. The fundraising numbers for the second quarter were looking disappointing. He would have to put in another $100,000 of his own dwindling money to meet the target by next week.
    And then he saw in the email from his Lincoln town coordinator a story from page five of the Middlesex News , “Famous Lincoln Barn Cited by Commission.”
    â€œMy wife knows this Miranda Dalton from town government—very smart, ambitious, bitchy, take your pick,” the coordinator explained as Stephen read. “She’s a registered Republican and has not given to anyone in this race. She went after someone for having a peace sign painted on their barn at her first meeting.”
    â€œThat’s pulling a Donald Trump. Very gutsy.”
    â€œYou want me to call her?”
    â€œDo we want her?”
    â€œWe need anyone we can get. We’re losing.”
    â€œIs she a tea party type? They’re trouble,” Stephen demurred.
    â€œWhy don’t you find out?”
    â€œAlright, let me take a crack at this one,” Stephen said. “I know that barn in Lincoln. It’s famous.”

Chapter Seven
    When Miranda heard Archer’s car crunch on the gravel driveway that evening, she went to the kitchen for the freshly polished silver tray with crabmeat salad and crackers. He parked in the barn, and walked to the back door with his distressed cordovan briefcase in one hand and the other hand deep in his pants pocket, probably snapping his key case and mentally counting his change. He’d always used a key case to prevent tearing the fabric of his pants. And he kept the key case—his current one was fourteen years old with embossed initials—in the same pocket as his change. That way the opposite pocket would be available for tissues, as he was allergic to everything, or occasionally a cell phone, but only the most basic flip model. He’d held out until 2003, then purchased one, only to