“Leather on flesh,” she whispered. “Flesh on flesh. Ohgodohgodohgod.”

Finnegan traced her finger around the screen of her phone, following the line from horse to Border Agent to whip to Haitian. “You thought you could escape me, Mandingo,” she whispered. “Your black body is mine.”

“Finnegan,” Jen said again. “Are you paying attention?”

“Not really,” Finnegan said. “Granpa’s whores have never really been a huge concern of mine.”

Jen reddened and spluttered, little parts of words falling out between clenched teeth.

Kamala brayed and snorted.

“What are we going to do about the border crisis,” Finnegan asked. “Eventually someone in the media is going to notice we have thousands of Haitians under a bridge.”

Jen coughed and reached for the water jug on the table.

“We send their bean-eating asses back,” Kamala said. “Real Black People like me have enough trouble without island spades gettin’ in our business. I’m fucking sick of plantains.”

“Wasn’t your father…” Jen began before taking a sip from her glass and choking on it.

“Shut the fuck up about my Dad, you redass bitch,” Kamala said, employing the jive she usually only broke out for reporters.

Jen sprayed liquid all over the table. “This is vodka,” she gasped.

“Oh, grow the fuck up,” Finnegan said, not looking up from her phone.

“Where’s Joe,” Kamala demanded. “I want to talk to Joe.”

“Press conference,” Jen and Finnegan said in the same monotone.

“Boris Johnson,” Jen said, glaring at Finnegan.

“What, aren’t either of you there?” she demanded.

Finnegan ignored her as she swiped through photos of slim Haitians being whipped with horse reins. Her right hand began to tremor and she let it fall to the table.

“I have my best people on it,” Jen said.

“Oh, Joe’s having a little Korean tonight, huh,” Kamala asked slyly, and then guffawed at length.

Finnegan’s hand strayed to the edge of the table. Not here, she thought. Not here.

“It’s just Boris Johnson,” Finnegan said absently. “Grandpa can handle him just fine.” She squeezed her legs together and began to rub them back and forth. The reins landed again and again as she swiped back and forth between the images. She could hear the whipcrack. She could taste bruised black skin.

“What’s that noise,” Kamala asked, right before the sirens went off.

“NO!” Finnegan said. “I was so close!”

“Just one day,” Jen said, stomping out of the room, “Just one fucking day of peace!”

An aide ran into the room, his thin pigeon chest straining against his button-down. “The President has shat himself! I repeat, The President has shat himself!”