“Every time God closes a window, Window God opens a window,” Joe said and smiled, the taut flesh of his face creaking.

“He’s been like that since Monday,” Finnegan said, tugging at her hair, flicking away strands that came loose.

“We have to get him back to Washington,” Jen said.

“No!” Finnegan insisted. “Sending him to make a statement already interrupted his treatment once. You want him ready for the 9/11 memorials? You want him continent for pressers? Then you have to let them finish scrubbing all the gunk out of his brain!”

“Do they actually scrub out his brain, like with a brush?” the little Korean intern that had been following Jen around for a month asked.

“Do you even have a name?” Finnegan asked, closing on the woman. “Like a real name, not just ‘little Korean press intern?’”

“Hey, leave her alone!’ Jen said, drawing her Korean in close, smashing her face into her sideboob.

“I don’t care who your fingering, Jen,” Finnegan said, “But I’m not interested in hearing it speak.”

“You’re mean,” the little Korean press intern said and ran from the Camp David cognitive lab.

“Wipe,” Joe said. “I need wipe.”

“See?” Finnegan said, spittle hitting Jen’s already scrunched-up face.

“Eat your breakfast, Grandpa,” she said.

“It tastes funny,” Joe whined. “Why is it so crunchy?”

“Oh. My. God,” Hunter said, strolling onto the set, his face a grinning skull. “Did you see the video of that guy flapping around outside the C-17? Fucking hilarious! Hilarious!”

“Who let you in?” Finnegan screamed.

“A little cocaine goes a long way out here in Butt Fuck, Maryland,” Hunter said and grinned and grinned.

“Hunter,” Jen said, her face stony.

“How you tasting lately, Strawberry?” Hunter asked. “Can I have another couple of licks?”

“You’re disgusting,” Jen said, covering her breasts and backing away.

“Even her ass was delicious,” Hunter said to Finnegan. “Like smoke and spice. Complex.”

“I knew David, sweet little boy,” Joe said. “That’s why I love his camp so much.”

“We’re having a crisis here, Dad,” Finnegan said to Hunter. “Afghanistan is in meltdown, Grandpa’s treatments aren’t going well…”

“When is anything ever going right?” Hunter said, dancing over to Joe. “I’ve told you chaos is when you can make a lot of money.”

“Hey, Dad!” he yelled into Joe’s face. “How’s it going?”

“I’m-m-m-m confident that the coming days will exhibit a real turn-around in the war against… against… against….”

“Any opportunities, Dad?” Hunter yelled. “Any pallets of cash to Kabul that need a high-level executive escort? Anything over there you need me to pick up? Some heroin maybe?”

“Afganistan is a beautiful country and they are beautiful people and I want beautiful for them to be beautiful,” Joe said, a twisting line of drool running out of his mouth.

“Wow,” Hunter said. “He’s all fucked up.”

“He’ll be back in Washington Wednesday,” Jen said.

“Wednesday?” Hunter scoffed. “He’ll still be trying to piss in his own mouth by Wednesday.”

“We have him on a new formula. Murder wasp extract,” Finnegan said. “It stimulates neural plasticity.”

Joe fell forward into his bowl of mush as Hunter fondled Jen right out of the room.