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is, even though BLM has approved the sale, the Interior Department has them so buried in red tape, it’ll take years to finalize unless they get a friendly congressional push.”
    “So Wendell Mining donated some money to local Congressman Grayson and asked him for a bump to the front of the line,” Harris says.
    “That’s how it works.”
    “And we’re sure about the land? I mean, we’re not selling some nature preserve to some big company who wants to put a mall and a petting zoo on it, are we?”
    “Suddenly you’re back to being an idealist?”
    “I never left, Matthew.”
    He believes what he’s saying. He’s always believed it. Growing up outside Gibsonia, Pennsylvania, Harris wasn’t just the first in his family to go to college—he was the first in his whole town. As silly as it sounds, he came to Washington to change the world. The problem is, a decade later, the world changed him. As a result, he’s the worst kind of cynic—the kind who doesn’t know he’s a cynic.
    “If it makes you feel better, I vetted it last year and revetted it months ago,” I tell him. “The gold mine’s abandoned. This town’s dying for Wendell Mining to take over. The town gets jobs, the company gets gold, and most important, once Wendell steps in, the company’s responsible for the hardest part, which is the environmental cleanup. Win, win, win, all around.”
    Harris falls silent, picking up the tennis racket that he usually keeps leaning on the side of his desk. I’ve seen the town where Harris grew up. He’d never call himself poor. But I would. Needless to say, they don’t play tennis in Gibsonia. That’s a rich man’s game—but the day Harris got to D.C., he made it his own. To no one’s surprise, he was a complete natural. It’s the same reason he was able to run the Marine Corps Marathon even though he barely trained. Mind over matter. He’s almost there right now.
    “So it all checks out?” he asks.
    “Every last detail,” I say as my voice picks up speed. “No lie.”
    For the first time since I entered his office, I see the quiet, charismatic grin in Harris’s eyes. He knows we’ve got a winner here. A huge winner if we play it smart.
    “Okay . . .” Harris says, bouncing the tennis racket against the palm of his hand. “How much you got in your bank account?”

4
    A T EXACTLY 9:35 the following morning, I’m sitting alone at my desk, wondering why my delivery’s late. On C-SPAN, a rabbi from Aventura, Florida, says a short prayer as everyone on the Speaker’s rostrum bows his head. When he’s done, the gavel bangs and the camera pulls out. On the stenographers’ table, the two water glasses are back. Anyone on the Floor could’ve moved them. They’re out there all day long. On my phone, I’ve got seven messages from lobbyists, fourteen from staff, and two from Members—all dying to know if we’ve funded their project. Everything’s back to normal—or as normal as a day like this gets.
    I pick up the phone and dial the five-digit extension for our receptionist out front. “Roxanne, if there’re any packages that come in—”
    “I heard you the first thirty-four times,” she moans. “I’ll send ’em right back. What’re you waiting for anyway, pregnancy results?”
    I don’t bother to answer. “Just make sure—”
    “Thirty-
five!
That’s officially thirty-five times,” she interrupts. “Don’t worry, sweetie—I won’t let you down.”
    Ten minutes later, she’s good to her word. The door from reception opens, and a young female page sticks her head in. “I’m looking for—”
    “That’s me,” I blurt.
    Stepping into the room with her blue blazer and gray slacks, she hands me the sealed manila envelope—and checks out the office.
    “That’s not real, is it?” she asks, pointing to the stuffed ferret on a nearby bookcase.
    “Thank the NRA lobbyists,” I tell her. “Isn’t it far more practical than sending flowers like everyone else?”
    With