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list of fifteen items that range from:
    (3) Convince both Kentucky Senators to vote against Hesselbach’s dairy compact bill
to:
    (12) Within the next seven days, replace Congressman Edward Berganza’s suit jacket with a tuxedo jacket.
    As usual, I go straight to the last item on the list. All the rest are bullshit—a way to throw people off in case a stranger gets his hands on it—but the last one on there . . . that’s the one that actually counts.
    As I read the words, my mouth tips open. I don’t believe it.
    “Everything alright?” Trish asks.
    When I don’t answer, all three of them turn my way. “Matthew, you still breathing over there?” she repeats.
    “Y-Yeah . . . no . . . of course,” I say with a laugh. “Just another note from Cordell.”
    My three colleagues instantly leap back to their verbal fistfight. I look down at the letter. And for the third time, I reread the words and try to contain my grin.
    (15) Insert Congressman Richard Grayson’s land sale project into the Interior House Appropriations bill.
    An earmark. A single Interior earmark. I can actually feel the blood rushing to my cheeks. This isn’t just any issue. It’s
my
issue.
    For once in my life, I can’t lose.

3
    S O WHAT DO YOU THINK? ” I ask as I rush into Harris’s office on the fourth floor of the Russell Senate Office Building. With its arched windows and tall ceilings, it’s nicer than the best office on the House side. The two branches of government are supposed to be equal. Welcome to the Senate.
    “You tell me,” Harris says, looking up from some paperwork. “Think you can really put the land sale into the bill?”
    “Harris, it’s what I do every day. We’re talking a tiny ask for a project no one would ever possibly look at. Even Congressman Grayson, who made the original request, couldn’t care less about it.”
    “Unless he’s playing the game.”
    I roll my eyes. “Will you please stop with that?” Since the day he invited me in, it’s been Harris’s most recurring wet dream: that it’s not just staff playing the game—it’s the Members playing as well.
    “It’s possible,” he insists.
    “Actually, it’s not. If you’re a Member of Congress, you’re not risking your credibility and entire political career for a few hundred bucks and a chess match.”
    “Are you joking? These guys get blow jobs in the bathroom of the Capitol Grille. I mean, when they go out for drinks, they have lobbyists trolling the bar and picking out girls so they can leave the place unescorted. You think a few of them wouldn’t get in on the action? Think for a second, Matthew. Even Pete Rose bet on baseball.”
    “I don’t care. Grayson’s project isn’t a four-star priority that reaches the Member level—it’s grunt work. And since it’s in my jurisdiction, it’s not getting in there unless I see it. I promise you, Harris—I already checked it out. We’re talking a teeny piece of land in the middle of South Dakota. Land rights belong to Uncle Sam; mineral rights below used to be owned by some long- defunct mining company.”
    “It’s a coal mine?”
    “This ain’t Pennsylvania, bro. Out in South Dakota, they dig for gold—or at least they used to. The company had been digging the Homestead mine since 1876—true gold rush days. Over time, they applied for a patent to buy the land, but when they sucked out every last drop, the company went bankrupt and the land stayed with the government, which is still dealing with the environmental problems of shutting one of these suckers down. Anyway, a few years back, a company called Wendell Mining decides it can find more gold using newer technologies, so they buy the old company’s claims out of bankruptcy, contact the Bureau of Land Management, and arrange to buy the land.”
    “Since when do we sell government land to private companies?”
    “How do you think we settled the West, Kimosabe? Most of the time, we even gave it away for free. The problem here