“Kermilla,” Joe slurred, his eyes wandering away from the whiteboard. It was hot in the Biden Quarantine Bunker, humid, the air thick with hyaluronic acid to keep Joe’s skin pliable.

“Kamala,” Finnigan said. His granddaughter separated the syllables slowly. “Ka-ma-la.” A drop of sweat ran down her spine until her thin, loose shirt.

“Pamela,” Joe said and grinned. He reached for her breasts.

“No,” she said. “Not until you get this right.”

“Joe needs his tendies,” Joe said. “He needs his tendie nub, nub, nubs.” He smacked his lips then tried to lick them.

“Repeat after me,” she said. “Kamala Harris.”

“Carbolic Headrest.”

“Kamala Harris,” she said again.

“Do I have pants on right now?” Joe asked. “Like, right now?” He opened his mouth wide and the upper plate of his dentures slipped down.

“Yes, you have pants on.”

“Take them off me, Jill. I wanna grab my tendies and hold her tight. I want some afternoon delight.”

“Let’s just work on the name of your running mate,” Finnegan said. The sour pit in her stomach said that her period was coming. At least I’m not pregnant again, she thought.

“Running mate? What am I running for?” He spread his arms wide and grinned. “You don’t know jack, Jack.”

“President.”

“President of what?” Joe asked brightly. “I, I, I, I, think I would make a great shelf, for a man or a woman.”

“Kamala Harris,” Finnigan said again, running her finger under the letters on the whiteboard.

“Who’s that?” Joe asked, running his hand up her heavy leg. His ragged fingernails caught on her skin, his trembling fingers forgot their way and lay stunned on her thigh.

“Your running mate,” she said, moving his hand away.

“You know what, what, what afternoon delight is, right?” he asked, letting his voice go husky.

“Yes, Joe. But it’s ten in the morning,” she said.

“I need my tendie nub-nubs,” Joe said.

Finnegan reached for the bottle of pills, big green ones with a black stripe. As she looked away, he buried his face in her neck, his breath fetid with rotted peppermint. He sniffed deeply, loudly, and began to cough, a glob of antique phlegm shooting into her hair.

“It’s time for a pill, Joe,” she said.

“What’s a pill?” Joe asked, between hacking and hawking and spitting on the floor.

Finnegan stood and walked over to the sink to get him a glass of water.

“I hate to see you go, but I sure like to watch you leave,” Joe said, leering.

“Take this,” she said, dropping the pill into his hand.

“OK, you’re the doctor!” Joe replied. He tossed the pill into the back of his throat, gagged, grabbed for the water, drank, spilled most of it down the front of his shirt, and finally swallowed the pill.

“You have to take twenty of these a day,” she said. Joe grinned back at her. “They’ll make you OK for the convention.”

“W-w-w-w-who’s Kamala Harris?” Joe asked.

“She is your running mate,” Finnegan said, pointing to Harris’ picture on the whiteboard.

“She looks kinda black to me,” Joe whispered hoarsely.

Finnegan smoothed his hair, smiled, and then kissed him deeply.

“That’s good,” she said. “She is black.”

“She is so long as she votes for me,” Joe said. “If not, well, something.”

“Yes, something,” she agreed and sighed. She opened her shirt and Joe began to suckle.