"I'm so lonely."

Molly sighs dramatically, leans back in the tub and gives her best "pitifully neglected urchin" look.  This look is, of course, undercut by the tubful of what she refers to as her "bath friends" -- various rubber duckies, books and toys guaranteed to keep a squirming four-year-old occupied while you attempt to wash behind her ears.

"And why are you lonely?" I ask absently while pondering how one small child can acquire so much dirt in the course of a day.  I suspect today's visit to her best friend's house may have included too much time playing with Crista's dogs.

"I miss Daddy," Molly explains.

"Yeah," I agree.  "I miss Daddy too."

"How come Daddy has to go to 'Sylvania so much?"

"Because he's helping the Governor."

Molly nods solemnly.  "Gotta get mean old Baker out of my playhouse."

"The White House," I correct her, trying to undo the spin Josh puts on bedtime stories.  "And that's a long way off yet."

Molly looks up at me, horror clearly written on her face.  "Daddy's staying in 'Sylvania a long time?"

I give her a quick hug.  "No, Daddy's coming home next week."

"We should go to 'Sylvania with Daddy."

I briefly wonder if Josh has been planting ideas in her head.  Wouldn't it be just like him to use my own child to play me?

"We have school," I point out.  I am intractable on this point.  When I first discovered I was pregnant with Molly, my initial reaction was panic.  I was completely convinced that I was going to have a girl, and I did not want my daughter's primary female role model to be a college dropout.  So, with surprisingly little grumbling from Josh, I cut back on my hours as his assistant and I went back to school.  Graduation and Molly's first birthday fell on the same week.

At any rate, I am keeping to a strict schedule this time around: I finish up my M.A. coursework in May, start gathering the data for my thesis over the summer and write the darn thing during my third trimester.  This may seem like I'm trying to accomplish too much during my pregnancy.  At least that's what Josh says, but I think his objections are based on the fact that he's going to have to break down and hire an actual assistant.

However, I think the schedule I'm working from is preferable to trying to write a master's thesis while caring for a toddler and an infant.

Plus Molly loves going to campus with me.  I'll sit in the library taking notes while Molly -- face scrunched up, brow furrowed, lips pursed -- "studies" her storybooks, holding out a hand every few minutes and declaring, "I need the purple index cards!"  Then she scribbles a series of lines and squiggles that she assures me are her notes on what she's reading.  The notes are lovingly placed in her backpack and carefully filed away in a special drawer in her bedroom.

Is this child mine, or what?

All this, however, is explanation as to why we can't up and follow Josh every time he makes a trip to Pennsylvania to consult with Governor Douglas-Radford.  Lord knows I want to.  The man's been gone for five days so far, and to say I miss him is an understatement of massive proportions.  This is pitiful.  I am, according to the nice people at Georgetown who gave me my degree, an educated woman.  Hell, I'm an educated woman with a degree in women's studies.  And yet here I am, pining for my man.

CJ assures me this is not a betrayal of the sisterhood, as long as my man pines for me too.

Based on the fact that he calls home three or four times a day, I'm thinking my membership in the sisterhood is safe.

My main problem at the moment, however, is a squirming, overtired, opinionated four-year-old who misses her father.

"Don't we have a 'cation next week?" she asks.

"Vacation," I correct.  Give her a break here:  "Vacation" is not a word you normally find in a Lyman's vocabulary.  "And I have Spring Break, yes.  Your preschool, however, meets just like normal."

Molly gives me an appraising look.  She's sizing up how far to push this . "All we do is play," she finally says.  "It's very fustating."

"Frustrating.  And why don't you like playing?"  Good.  She's concentrating on her argument.  With any luck, I'll have her hair washed before she has time to squeal.  The people who came up with that "no more tears" slogan never met Molly at bath time.

"I like playing," she explains while I lather, rinse and repeat.  "But I'm ready to read and write, you know."

"I am very much aware of that."  I really am.  Molly took an aptitude test earlier this year.  Verbal skills through the roof, I'm telling you.  Plus she can already write the alphabet and her full name.  Molly Jordan Moss-Lyman is a rather long name, and I'm very proud of this accomplishment.

But I don't want to be one of those parents who rushes her child into lessons and such too early, thereby taking all the joy out of learning, so I'm trying not to push.

Even though she could kick some first-grade ass, academically speaking.

"So," she says, as I throw a towel around her hair, "why not go see Daddy 'stead of going to school?"

"Instead."

She looks up at me, and I recognize the cajoling look in those little brown eyes.  It was, after all, a similar look in another pair of warm brown eyes that resulted in Molly's being conceived six months ahead of schedule.

"Please, Mommy.  Daddy won't be home for weeks and weeks."

"One week.  Daddy will be home in one week."

Actually, it's six days, four hours and seventeen minutes.  But who's counting?

"One week."  Molly sighs dramatically.  "One whole week."  Yeah, I know I'm being played, but I must say I understand her point.

"We'll talk about it when Daddy calls," I concede.

Josh makes a point of calling promptly at 8 a.m. (just as I'm getting Molly ready for school) and 7 p.m. (just before Molly's bed time) every day.  Then he calls back once Molly's safely asleep.  Irving and Viridis have renewed their acquaintance since Josh started working for the Governor.

My Master Politician, Junior Grade, stands up.  I help her out of the tub and wrap her tiny body up in a towel.  She claps her hands excitedly.  "Daddy was right!" she exclaims.

Wait.  What?

"Daddy was right about what?" I ask suspiciously.

"I can talk you into anything," she explains, throwing her little arms around my knees.

Irving, you sexy bastard, you are so not getting any relief from Viridis tonight!

***

Once upon a time, I really liked traveling.  I enjoyed the hell out of each new hotel room.  Donna will say that's because I knew I didn't have to clean it when I was through, but she's... well, yeah, okay.  There may be a small kernel of truth.  But free maid service aside, campaigning allowed me to see the entire country, hotel room by hotel room.  And this country is an amazing place.  Well, for the most part; there were some duds.

Like Boise.  And Pierre.

Although the last time we were in Pierre, back during the President's re-election campaign, the hotel had this alcove not far from the ballroom, and Donna and I--

I think I've misplaced my point.

Traveling.  I used to love it.  But that was before Molly.

Now each night on the road means I sit alone in a hotel room and call home instead of coming home to the exuberant delight of my four-year-old daughter.  While in another state Donna gives Molly a bath, I listlessly read the sports section of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, half-listening to CNN until the top of the hour theme music plays.  Because that means it's time to call home.

"'Lo?"

My daughter is so damn cute.  "Molly, it's--"

"Daddy!" she yells.

I pull the phone a little bit away from my ear.  Donna claims that Molly inherited the happy-equals-loud trait from me, but you can guess my daughter's mood strictly from the decibel level.

Laughing, I settle back onto the bed, letting the mattress soothe my back.  It's not sore, not really.  It just... acts up on long days.  Little twinges, a bit of stiffness, that sort of thing.  I've told Donna repeatedly that my doctor recommends regular exercise, which requires us to be in the same city every night.  But she's got school, and so does Molly.

I understand, I really do.  I just wish she could do her coursework and travel with me.  I miss my wife, and I miss my daughter.  I don't think I'll ever forget the strangely fascinated look on Leo's face when I made a comment to that effect the time I visited him in Boston.  I guess it makes sense; I never really thought I would get married, never mind reproduce.  And if the dumbfounded look on my colleagues' faces when Donna and I announced that we were going to be parents are any indication, nobody else really expected it either.  And now here I am, happily married and a father to boot.

Yeah, I think I've crossed some sort of line.

"Daddy," my daughter says, "how's 'Sylvania?"

"Pennsylvania," I correct.  "I'm in Pittsburgh."

She laughs.  "That's funny."

"What'd you learn at school today, Molly?"

"Dinosaurs!"  She's so excited, almost yelling. I can picture her, the way her big brown eyes get all wide, the way her little hands fingerpaint the air.

"Really?" I ask.  "What kind of dinosaurs?"

"Big dinosaurs," she answers seriously, and I can't help but laugh.  "They are big, Daddy," she tells me, a note of censure in her voice.

"Yes, they are," I agree.  "They've got a dinosaur skeleton at the Museum of Natural History, Molly.  I'll take you next weekend."

There's a moment of silence, and I can almost hear the wheels turning.  "Daddy, how come dinosaurs are extinct?"

I stare at the overly neutral wallpaper for a minute, trying to frame a response that will satisfy her.  "Because a meteor hit the earth."  Then I stifle a groan, because I know what's coming next.

"What's a meteor?" she asks.

Yup, there it is.  Like I can explain this over the phone.  I need charts and illustrations and possibly an astronomer.  "A meteor is a big rock from outer space, and a long, long time ago, a meteor bounced off the earth."

"Like a baseball when they don't catch it?" she asks.

I nod, even though she can't see me.  "Yes, like a baseball when they don't catch it.  Just like that, only a little bigger.  And it made the earth..."  Um...  "...shake a little, and the dinosaurs... got extinct."  I can't imagine how I got that 'B' in Earth Science.  Ruined my damn GPA, that class did.

Why can't she ask me to explain how a bill becomes a law, or about parliamentary procedure?  I mean, yeah, she already knows that stuff, but -- dinosaurs?  How the hell am I supposed to explain--

"Daddy?"

"Yes?"

"Why did God let the dinosaurs get extinct?"

Okay, well, I'm totally stumped.  I briefly consider using the hideously expensive hotel phone to call Sam and see if theology is one of the things he geeks out about.  Maybe he could field this question.

"Because..."  I make some strange humming noise, buying time while I try to come up with an answer.  "Because sometimes God does things that we can't understand."  Like, you know, let some punkass kids point a loaded gun at you, even though you're just a guy standing there.

Molly sounds confused when she asks, "Like when God let Baker play in my playhouse?"

I run a hand through my hair until my knuckles hit the pillow, and then drape my arm over my eyes.  "You shouldn't blame God for that, Molly.  Blame the voters."

"Will God let it happen more?"

"'Will God let it happen again,'" I correct.  "And you know that's why I'm in Pennsylvania, Molly.  I don't want the voters--"

"No, the motor."

"Meteor."

"Will God let the meteor bounce on the earth again?"

I never understood my mother when she would talk about the love a parent has for a child.  Then I met Molly.  Now the thought of the world ending while she's living on it -- or even something as trivial as a hangnail or a scratch from an unfriendly cat -- sends me around the bend.  I have never felt so protective of anyone in my entire life.  And yet I am adrift here, with no idea how to reassure Molly.  I can't lie to her, but I don't want her to obsess over the prospect of a meteor landing in the backyard either.

Finally, I say, "God loves us, Molly.  He wouldn't let that happen again."

She sounds very disappointed.  "Why doesn't He love the dinosaurs?"

There is really just no way I can explain this to a four-year-old.  "He does.  He--"  Inspiration strikes.  "Molly, do you remember the story of Noah's ark?"

"Noah saved the animals!"  Molly adores animals; after our first trip to the wildlife refuge -- Donna refused to take Molly to the zoo, because the animals are in captivity and apparently Sam lectured her one too many times on the pitfalls of captive breeding programs and mistreatment and small pens.  What was I saying?  Oh, yes.  After we got home from the wildlife refuge, Molly asked very seriously if we could move there and live with the animals.  It was really quite logical; after all, our reasons for not getting pets has always been that there's not room in the brownstone, and they'd be unhappy being cooped up.  In Molly's mind, moving to the wildlife refuge would solve that problem.

She was a little disappointed when we told her no.  So it makes perfect sense that she remembers Noah for saving the animals.

"Yes," I tell her.  "He saved the animals."  I frown up at the ceiling for a moment; how much detail will she be able to understand?  "God knew there was a big storm coming, so he warned Noah and told him to build an ark."

"That's a boat," Molly tells me proudly.  I can picture the look on her face, the excited flush on her cheeks when she knows she has the right answer.

I miss her with a sharpness that never seems to dull, no matter how much time I spend away from Molly and Donna.

"Yes, a big boat."

"And he put the animals on the boat," she continues.  "Even snakes."  Her tone of voice leaves little doubt that she's making that mildly disgusted face, where she scrunches up her nose and sticks out her tongue.  Donna's soft laughter in the background confirms it.

See, Molly loves all animals, but she's quite scared of snakes.  "Yes, even snakes," I tell her.

"Daddy, did the animals have their own rooms?"

Um...  "Sure."  The Bible's a little light on these details, but I'm going to assume it was a pretty damn big boat.

"Good," Molly decides.  "They should all have their own rooms like I have my own room."

I decide to skip ahead before she starts asking if Freddie the polar bear had his own bookcase just like Molly.  My daughter takes after her mother in a lot of ways; she likes to know the details of everything.  Like why ice cubes are see through but snow is white if they're both frozen water.  Yeah, I told her to ask Mommy.

"So the storm came," I tell her.  "And it rained and rained and rained and rained--"

"Daddy!" Molly interrupts, laughing.

I'm grinning like a moron at this point.  "And then it rained a little more."

"That's a lot of rain," she points out.

"Yes, it is.  And then the rain stopped, and Noah's ark was floating around in the ocean, which was much, much bigger than it used to be."

"Big enough to reach Washington?" she asks.

I don't want to get into how the entire earth was flooded and have her stop obsessing about meteors just to obsess about giant floods, so I dodge the question.  "This happened over in Israel and Palestine and Jordan."

"Uncle Toby's cousin lives in Israel," Molly tells me.

Really?  Huh.  "Yeah," I say.  "So during the storm, it rained so much that the land was underwater.  A few days later, Noah released a bird, who flew away and didn't return.  So Noah knew there was dry land--"

"'Cause the bird went to live there!"  My daughter is so damn smart.

"Right.  And not long after that, Noah's ark landed, and all the animals got off, and there was a rainbow--"'

"Yay!"  When Molly gets really excited, she claps her hands.  Sometimes she forgets that clapping and holding onto things are mutually exclusive, and this is no exception.  The phone clatters to the hardwood floor, and I yank the receiver away for a moment.

When I press it back to my ear, I can hear Donna's soft laughter as she rescues the phone and reassures Molly.  "Daddy's right here."

Then I hear Molly scrabbling with the phone, and her anxious voice.  "Daddy?"

"Did you just throw me on the floor?" I demand in my mock-angry tone.

Molly giggles, delighted.  "I did!"

I try really hard and manage not to laugh outright.  "Is that any way to treat your father?"

"Yes."  I know exactly what look she's got on her face right now.  It's the one Donna calls her Smartass Josh face.  Obviously, Donna only calls it that outside Molly's earshot; but whenever Molly turns that particular expression our way, Donna sighs and glares at me.

I find that particular look to be quite endearing.

"Well," I tell Molly, "I guess you don't want to hear the rest of the story--"

"No!" she protests.  "I wanna hear about the rainbow."

"You sure?"

"Yes!"

"Okay.  The rainbow is the best part of the story.  After it rained and rained and--"

"Daddy," Molly admonishes, "you already told that part!"

I cover the phone for a second so she can't hear me chuckle.  "After the storm, the sun appeared in the sky and Noah saw the most beautiful rainbow.  And you know what that rainbow was?"

Her tone is awed when she answers.  "What was it, Daddy?"

"That rainbow was God's promise to Noah, and to all of us, that he would never let anything like that happen again."

"Never?"

"Never," I confirm.  Please, God, prove me right.  Don't ever let anything happen to this little girl, or her brother.

Which, incidentally, reminds me of God's other comment, the one about 'be fruitful and multiply.'  I'm thinking we'll save that particular detail until Molly's, oh, fifty-five or so.

"Daddy?" Molly asks seriously.

"What, honey?"

"I love rainbows," she confesses.

***

This is the moment I've been waiting for all day.  Molly is (finally!) sound asleep; I've done all the studying I can manage for one evening; the house is -- well, the house is pretty much a disaster, but I figure I'll have plenty of time to clean later (if by "later," I mean once Molly and her sibling are in college).  Right now, I am ready -- more than ready, even -- for a private conversation with my old friend Irving.

I haven't talked to Irving for twenty-four hours.  And we left off our conversation at a most intriguing spot.

Picking up the phone on the first ring, I whisper, "Hello, Irving," in my deepest, sexiest voice.

"Donna?" Josh asks, clearly puzzled.  "Do you have a sore throat or something?"

"No," I answer in a normal, albeit irritated, tone of voice.

"Because you sound like you did that time you had the flu during--"

"That was my seductive voice."

"It really wasn't."  The bastard sounds too damn amused.

"I was going for a Lauren Bacall quality.  It was sexy."

"As the father of your one point three children, I'm pretty much the expert on your seductive voice.  That wasn't it."

"I'm rolling my eyes here, just so you know."

The next thing I hear sounds remarkably like someone turning on his television.

"Josh, please tell me you're not watching CNN."

"I'm not watching CNN."

"C-SPAN then."

There's a click that sounds suspiciously like a television being turned off.

Smart boy.

"I can't help it, Donna.  I'm going crazy here.  I miss Washington."

"Because you are lonely and need the comforting, not to mention erotic, presence of the woman you love?"

"That too."  He sighs, obviously contemplating everything he's missing -- which does not, I'm thinking, center on the joys of connubial bliss.  "I was not made for state politics," he says.  "I can't function at this level.  These people, they go on and on and they make these petty demands that could hold up important legislation, not to mention damage the governor's re-election bid and--"

"This is different from the White House how?  Because it all sounds pretty familiar to me."

"There may be similarities," Josh admits.

"But the stakes are lower, and you are not a patient man to begin with."

"I miss DC," Josh insists, choosing to ignore my trenchant analysis.  "I miss Congress, I miss the White House.  I miss the debates and the backstabbing and knowing what's going on and who's making the deals that will be dissected in the Post tomorrow.  I miss the monuments and the cherry blossoms.  Are there cherry blossoms yet, Donna?"

"Oh, for the love of god, Josh, you've only been gone five days!"

"God help me," he continues, again ignoring me, "I even miss the damn tourists."

"No, you don't."

"I could.  I might.  I'm sure if I'd thought about it before, I would have missed them."

"Do you want me to repeat everything you've said on the subject of tourists in the nine years I've known you?"

"I miss Molly," he says.  There's a certain petulant quality to his voice that is not unattractive.  He's probably doing that thing where his lower lip juts out, and I swear it's like he's begging me to nibble at it.

Yeah, it's clear what I'm missing.

"I hate being an absentee father," he continues.  "I should be spending more time with her."

"Josh, honestly, you spend as much time with her as you can manage.  Molly knows that."

"She keeps asking when I'm coming home."

"Well, of course she does.  She misses you."

"Which proves my point."

"Josh, you spend as much time with her as you can.  You certainly spend more time with her than my father ever spent with Frances and me, and his job was nowhere near as demanding as being Deputy Chief of Staff or running a gubernatorial campaign."

"Still--"

"You miss her.  We've established that."

"I can't make it home for another week."

"I know."

"And I don't like you being alone in your condition."

"My condition?  I'm pregnant, Josh; I'm not an invalid.  And I'm rolling my eyes again."

"I don't like it," he repeats.  "I tend to worry."

"Gee, really?  I never would have guessed."

"See, a supportive wife would tone down the sarcasm."

He's smiling.  I can tell.

Damn.  I'm probably missing a classic dimples sighting.

"Why do I get the feeling I'm being tagteamed here?" I ask.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Molly's been putting quite a lot of effort into convincing me that we should go to Pennsylvania," I note.

"Well, she's a smart kid."

"Who said something along the lines of 'Daddy says I can talk you into anything.'"

The silence on the other end of the line is, in its own way, rather revealing.  "I'm sure that if I made a remark of that nature, which I do not recall doing, Molly misinterpreted my intent and--"

"Josh, admit it.  You're using our firstborn child for your own nefarious purposes."

"I wouldn't call them nefarious so much as...  Okay, there's no way I'm going to win this one, is there?"

"No, but you're sexy as hell when you're flustered, so that works in your favor."

When Josh sighs over the telephone, it is not unlike having him breathe in my ear.  I swear my body practically vibrates from the sensation.  "I miss you," he says in what is definitely his seductive voice.

I can feel myself relenting.  Also tingling.

"I suppose it wouldn't hurt to take Molly out of school next week."

"So you're coming?"

You know, sometimes he just makes this too easy.  Slipping back into my seductive voice, I reply, "Well, Irving, that's pretty much up to you, isn't it?"

By the time I hang up the phone, I swear that even my toes are tingling.

Yes, I can definitely afford to take some time off next week.  Strictly for Molly's benefit, you understand.

***

As soon as I turn the water off, I can hear impatient knocking at the door of my hotel room.  I hastily dry off and pull on my makeshift pajamas.

"All right," I yell, pulling the door open.  Lucky for them, I'm still pretty relaxed after my extended conversation with Viridis.  "What is the damn emergency?"

Toby and Toni Timian stand there, with matching sour expressions.  "Finnigan," Toni says.

Why am I not surprised?  Finnigan is a Pennsylvania state Senator, a conservative Republican, and Susan Douglas-Radford's toughest opponent for Governor.  Finnigan also has the charming habit of choosing a sympathetic reporter to call late at night with inflammatory remarks.  He seems to think that way the opposition won't have adequate time to respond.

That may have been true three weeks ago, but I coaxed Toby back into politics largely because of his ability to craft succinct, searing statements in ten minutes flat.

Well, that and because Sam told me Toby's publisher was pressing him to write a memoir about the Bartlet administration.  And I really don't want that verbal acuity turned on me.

I wordlessly hold open the door.  Thank God I sprang for a suite; we settle around the small sitting area, and I give them an expectant look.  "What'd Finnigan do now?"

Toby shifts a bit, folding his hands carefully.  "Finnigan's attacking us on clean elections.  How hard do you want to hit back?"

"What'd he say?"

Toni glances down at her tiny notepad.  "'Douglas-Radford's incessant demands for so called 'clean elections' -- as though the democratic process that has served us faithfully since the time of our Founding Fathers isn't quite good enough for her -- is the epitome of hypocrisy--'"

Toby makes a small, disgruntled noise, no doubt in reaction to the tangled syntax.  Luckily, Toni's already learned to ignore him.  She just keeps reading, "'--considering that Douglas-Radford herself is taking money from special interests with very narrow focuses.'"

I can't help but roll my eyes. " Right, because his corporate donors' interest aren't at all narrow."

Toby very nearly smiles.  "Exactly.  Besides which--"

"The voters of Pennsylvania passed a damn clean elections law," Toni interrupts, "with over sixty percent support.  It's Finnigan and his damn cronies who are refusing to fund it.  Which means--"

"She can't run a clean elections campaign without matching funds," Toby continues.  "And coincidentally, it's her political opponent who's blocking those funds--"

"And then has the nerve to call her a hypocrite," Toni finishes.

I watch them for a minute, quite amused.  "So do you guys need me at all, or--"

"Josh." Toby gives me a look.  "It's still pretty early.  I don't know that a full frontal assault--"

"Yeah." I frown, pondering our options.  The election's not for six months, which is a long damn time, politically speaking.  And Finnigan's our strongest opponent.  Hitting back hard right now would just start a vicious cycle -- Finnigan incites us to pillory him in the press, which opens the door for insinuations that Susan Douglas-Radford is a hysterical, shrieking female.

I nod slowly.  "Don't hit back so much as jab."

Toni groans.  "Boxing metaphors?  Really?"

I ignore her.  "Let the press make the connections to the clean elections law."

"Say that she'd like nothing more than to run a clean campaign, but the people's will has been thwarted by the state legislature--"

"But," Toni frowns, "if we don't come back with a strongly worded--"

"Josh is right," Toby tells her.  "It's too early to--"

"Stand up for ourselves?" she demands, obviously gearing up for a lengthy debate.  "Look--"

"Hey," I stand up and gesture toward the door, because these two are quite happy to sit around and argue for hours on end, and I don't need any part of that.  "Go talk to some reporters."

Toby rolls his eyes and stands.  "If we start this now," he tells Toni, "we'll play this the rest of the campaign, and the press will begin to paint a picture."

"A picture of a female candidate who refuses to play the victim.  Yeah, that would really suck," Toni scoffs.

I stand in the doorway, watching them bicker their way down the hallway.  My shoulders are tense again.

I wonder if Viridis is up for a second round.

***

I am not a perfect mother.  I am guilty on occasion of telling my child to amuse herself while Mommy studies.  After three rounds of "I Spy," my head feels as though it will explode.  Given the choice between Nickelodeon and C-SPAN, I think we all know which network the Moss-Lyman television will be turned to.  And I couldn't bake a cake if my life depended on it.

I dare you, however, to find a woman who loves her child more fiercely than I love Molly Jordan Moss-Lyman.

My Molly is, not to put too fine a point on it, a miracle.  She is this unique combination of Josh and me, with all our traits jumbled up together into something greater than either of her parents.  Even her unattractive qualities -- you may have noticed that my daughter inherited a smidgen of the Lyman ego -- enthrall me.  There is nothing, not one thing, about this child that I don't adore.  I have, therefore, made it my mission in life to guarantee that nothing ever harms her.  As long as there is breath in my body, no one says or does anything to upset or disillusion my daughter.

Are we clear?

Molly's world is a joyous place, filled with family and friends who love her.  Nothing that Josh would describe as dark has ever been allowed to enter that world.  We have worked very hard at this.  We have restricted what she can watch on television; we have instructed our friends and her teachers that there are subjects Molly isn't ready to deal with yet.  We have, of course, a strategy for how and when she'll be told certain things.

And now some little jerk on the playground has ruined our carefully thought-out plans.

She's too young to understand.  She's a bright child, but how in hell do you make a four-year-old understand all this?  Especially when Josh is in Pennsylvania with Governor Douglas-Radford.  The plan was to sit her down next to her father, so she could understand that he's all right.  That it happened years before Molly was born, and everything's fine now.

We put her in this preschool with the explicit understanding that Molly needed to be shielded from this.  They promised us that they'd help.

They screwed up.  And now my child is inconsolable, and they can't make her understand.

All of which explains why I'm out for blood by the time I reach Molly's preschool.  The principal, Mrs. Lau (a woman I normally like), greets me before I can close the door to the Toyota.

"Mrs. Lyman," she begins, "I am so sorry."

"Where is my daughter?"

"She's in my office.  Sally's with her.  You remember my aide Sally?  Molly's especially fond of Sally, so we thought it would be wise--"

"Yeah, I don't really care what you thought right this minute."  I'm walking as fast as I can toward the principal's office.

"I want to explain how this happened."

"Yes, I'd like to hear your explanation.  So, I'm sure, would my husband.  We'll schedule that meeting some other time.  Right now, I need to take my daughter home."

"Of course."  Mrs. Lau looks decidedly pale.  She's been running a school that caters to the offspring of Beltway players for too long not to have heard a few stories about The Wrath of Lyman.

Good.  Let her panic for a while.  Suits me just fine.

Especially when I get my first glimpse of Molly.

Fearless, joyous Molly.  Huddled in a ball, holding her little arms tightly around her body, sobbing and refusing to look at -- much less listen to -- Sally's attempts to comfort her.  Molly's legendary verbal skills seem to have evaporated; the only word I can make out between her sobs is a plaintive "Daddy."

"Molly Jordan," I say quietly, "Daddy's fine."

Molly looks up, blinks back the latest round of tears, and recognizes me.  With an agonized cry of "Mommy," she launches herself at me.  I pick her up and hold her as tight as I can.

"Mrs. Lyman," the principal begins again, "we--"

"Get out," I order.  I manage a curt nod of thanks to Sally as she walks past me, then settle a nearly hysterical Molly onto the couch once the others have gone.

"Daddy's okay," I tell her.

Molly shakes her head.  "Isn't," she says.

"Is," I answer, reaching for my cell phone.  "I'll prove it.  We'll talk to Daddy right now."

***

I consider myself a good father.

I read stories to Molly until my throat is sore.  I take her to the park, even though the sun bothers me.  (I mean, really -- who wants to be outside sweating or shivering when there's a perfectly good central air unit in operation?)  And I am always accessible.

Or at least I try to be.

But politics has never been a nine-to-five job, especially not when I'm running a campaign.  Consequently, I'm not home enough. I don't get to spend as much time as I'd like to with my daughter.  Donna knows how much it bothers me to be away from them, and so we devised a strict calling schedule -- I call home three times a day, and Molly can call me anytime she needs to.

Molly's definition of "need" is, as you might imagine, quite different from Donna's and mine.  Donna only calls after five (even though I don't keep office hours, she considers after five to be fair game).  Phone calls from my daughter, on the other hand, come at any hour of the day.  (And if she has a nightmare or wants a second bedtime story, any hour of the night as well.)  So I'm not particularly concerned when my cell phone trills mid-staff meeting.

"Sorry." I check the display.  "My daughter," I tell Governor Douglas-Radford.  She looks unfazed, even though we're discussing strategy to deal with Finnigan and his minions.  Obviously, she's used to my quirks already. I push myself upright and start for the door.  "I'll just be a second."

But when the sound registers, I freeze.  My daughter is hysterical, wailing in between her sobs.  I don't think I've been this blindly terrified in my entire life.  "Molly?  Molly, what's wrong?"

Even I can hear the utter panic in my voice.  The Governor ushers everyone else out of the room, squeezing my arm as she slips past.  I barely notice.  "Molly Jordan?  Where's Mommy?  Are you okay?"

"Daddy," she sobs.

"I'm here, Molly," I tell her urgently, trying to get through to her.

"Daddy," she sobs.  "Daddy's hurt."

My entire body is quaking from this rush of adrenaline, and I feel utterly impotent, hundreds of miles from my daughter when she needs me.  God, I hope she didn't see the footage of the shooting.  Damn CNN and their incessant retrospectives, anyway.

"Molly, I'm not hurt.  I'm fine.  Daddy's fine."

"Daddy?"

"Yes, I'm right here."

"Not here," she argues, her voice still soggy.  But the sobbing seems to be dying down, and I can hear Donna's voice in the background, murmuring something comforting, no doubt.  I relax the slightest bit.  Donna's with her, so I know Molly isn't in physical danger.

"I'm talking to you, right?"

"Yes," she answers.

The phone is pressed so tightly to my ear that my knuckles will probably leave bruises on my cheek.  Ask me if I care.  "If I'm talking to you, then I must be okay, right?"

"Daddy," Molly says, her voice heartbreakingly quiet.  "Can you come home now?"

I am a terrible father.  I am a horrible, terrible person -- how dare I be in another goddamn state when my daughter needs me?

"Honey, I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Now?"

My heart hurts.  I am experiencing actual pain in my chest.  It nearly kills me to say no to her on a good day.  But now?  "I can't be there right now, Molly, but I will be there as soon as possible."

"Daddy, now!" she insists, still crying a little.

I rub a hand over my face.  "Molly, can I talk to Mommy for a second?"

"'Kay."

There's the sound of her little fingers on the mouthpiece, and a beep as she accidentally presses a number.  I can hear Donna's soothing tones, and then she's on the phone.

"Josh?"

"Donna, what the hell--"

"Not now," she tells me, her voice drawn tight.  "We'll deal with Mrs. Lau later."

"Mrs. Lau?  I don't--"

"One of her classmates saw the CNN piece."

"Some little punk told my daughter that--"

"Yes, Josh," Donna interrupts.  "Next week."

I sigh, forcibly relaxing my tensed muscles.  I can still hear Molly mumbling something.  "Yeah.  How is she?"

"A little better," Donna answers cryptically.  "Today's Thursday."

I blink, trying to follow her unique logic.  Even after six years of marriage, Donna's abrupt subject changes leave me lost.  "Huh?"

"Today's Thursday," she repeats.

"All day."

"Josh."  Good.  She sounds exasperated, which is light years better than the ill-concealed anger and sorrow of a few minutes ago.

"I'm just saying."

"Listen, you wanted us to fly up anyway--"

My wife is a genius.

"Yes!" I tell her.  "Absolutely.  When will you be here?"

"I'm going to take Molly home to pack and--"

"Pack?" Molly echoes in the background.

"Yes, sweetie," Donna tells her. " We're going to go see Daddy."

"We are?" Molly asks, her tone awed.

"Yes."

Molly cheers, and I find myself smiling idiotically at the middle distance.  "When are you coming?"

"I'll call the airline from the car--"

"We're still in Pittsburgh," I remind her.

"Yes, Josh, I actually can read an itinerary," she answers dryly.

"I'm just being helpful."

"Oh, is that what you were being?"

"Yeah." I take a deep breath.  "So when you get here, we're going to have to talk to Molly."

"Yeah," Donna answers, her voice a little watery.

"Are you crying?"

"Shut up, Josh."

"Donna, we need to talk to her about it.  We have to make her understand."

"I know."

I rub my forehead and stare absently at the wood grain of the conference table.  "How do you explain hate crimes to a four-year-old?"

When she answers, Donna sounds uncertain and more than a little scared.  "I don't know, Josh."

Problem is, I don't know either.

"Yeah," I say finally.  "We'll figure it out."

We're going to have to.

***

On a normal day, Molly comes home from preschool full of chatter about the friends she's played with and the things she's learned.  She follows me around the house, alternately talking and laughing and singing her way to bedtime.

Just watching her usually exhausts me.  I blame Josh; she obviously inherited this hyperactivity from her father.

Today, however, Molly retreats to the silence of her bedroom, and I'm torn.  On the one hand, she must understand by now that her father's all right.  Yes, she's only four and her ability to comprehend the difference between the past and the present is limited; but she's talked to Josh, so she should know he's okay.  Shouldn't she?  I can leave her alone long enough to make plane reservations and fix her dinner.  On the other hand, this frightened, withdrawn child -- the opposite of my exuberant Molly -- terrifies me.  I want to wrap my arms around her.  I want to call Josh back and keep him on the phone with her until our plane leaves, if that's what it takes.

There are many things I haven't figured out in four years of being a mother, but this is the one thing I'm sure of:  When your child is this upset, you stay with her.  Dinner and plane reservations can wait until later.

The sight that awaits me when I reach Molly's bedroom is heartbreaking:  Molly the Fearless has erected a barricade on her bed.  Her tiny body is practically hidden within a circle of stuffed animals.  Logical child that she is, Molly has arranged her animals according to ferocity: lions, tigers and bears form the outer ring, with the Tyrannosaurus Rex Zoey gave her for her fourth birthday facing the door.  Stuffed dogs and kittens form an inner circle, while Molly clings to a battered yellow lamb she's had since she was a baby.

"Well," I say, finally spotting a blonde head in this sea of stuffed toys, "I was going to come in and talk, but I don't think there's room for me on your bed."

"Move," Molly whispers -- apparently into the ear of a stuffed monkey -- as she surreptitiously rearranges the animals to afford me passage inside her safe circle.

I still have to pull up my knees to fit inside while Molly rebuilds her wall of stuffed animals; but once that's accomplished, she throws her arms around me and nestles against my body for protection while I stroke her hair.

"We're very safe here, you know," I tell her.  "You don't need your animals to protect you . Your daddy and I have made sure this house is safe enough for our little girl to live in."

"Daddy's gone."

What exactly does that mean?  That the house isn't as secure without Josh here, or that Molly still hasn't been reassured about her father's safety?  When in doubt, go with "all of the above."

"Well, Daddy's in Pennsylvania.  But he'd never go anywhere if he thought you and I weren't safe.  Besides, do you know what Daddy's doing right this minute?"

Molly shakes her head tentatively, as if she's afraid to consider what her beloved father might be going through.

I pull her to me even tighter with one hand and use my free hand to tilt Molly's head up so she's facing me.  "He's stopping everybody he sees and he's telling them that tomorrow his daughter will be in Pennsylvania.  And people are rolling their eyes and saying,  'That Josh Lyman!  All he does is talk about that daughter of his.'"

"'Cause he loves me lots."  For an instant, I can see the old Molly resurfacing; but before I can breathe a sigh of relief, she asks, "Did Daddy used to be a bad man?"

"No.  Your daddy's always been a very good man."  Hostile, arrogant, belligerent and sarcastic, but always good.

"'Cause Derek said only bad men got shot."

"Was Derek the one who told you about Daddy?"

Molly nods again.  "Derek was watching TV with his daddy, and they saw it.  I told Derek he was wrong and nobody'd shoot my daddy, but Derek's daddy told him 'specially it was Molly Lyman's daddy.  But I still didn't believe him, so I asked Mrs. Lau's helper Debbie, and she said Derek was right."

It takes a minute to sort through that speech -- the most Molly's said all day.  After I work through all the references to Molly's daddy and Derek's daddy, I think I have it figured out.  Not only is Derek's father negligent enough to let his preschooler watch real people being shot on TV, he somehow feels compelled to point out that the victim is the father of his son's classmate.  Then Mrs. Lau's assistant, who had specific instructions to let me answer any questions Molly would ever bring them about the shooting, took it upon herself to tell my child that Josh had once been the victim of a violent crime.

I'll deal with the various adults in this fiasco next week.  Right now, all I care about is Molly's well-being.

"Molly, what happened to your daddy -- it was long before you were born.  He's all right now."

He'll never be all right.  Not really.  He made an incredible recovery, mainly through sheer force of will, but he'll always have the back pain and the possibility of heart problems.  Not to mention the joy of living with post-traumatic stress disorder.  But Molly can't handle knowing any of that now, so I repeat.  "Daddy's fine, honey."

"Derek said there was blood.  Lots of blood."

I hesitate before I answer.  "Yes, there was."  I hate telling her this, but Molly is looking at me like she's judging every word I say.  She's too smart to accept an easy lie.  "But he had extra good doctors, and they made him better."

Molly doesn't say anything else for a while.  I'm not sure whether that's a good sign or a bad sign, but I'm determined to distract her.  "I've got a great idea, Molly.  Let's go fix dinner.  We'll have anything you want."

"Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?"

"Well, I thought maybe we'd have liver and onions because I know that's your favorite."

This doesn't elicit the laugh and the "silly Mommy" she'd usually give me.  But Molly puts her hand in mine and agrees to leave the safety of her bedroom.

At least it's a start.

***

It's some sort of strange kismet, I guess, that it's Toby who finds me.

"Josh, I'm going to -- Josh?"

He stops talking just as his voice starts to penetrate my haze.  It's been a long damn time since this happened, so long that I convinced myself I was all better.  That the flashbacks were gone forever.

So much for that.

"Josh?"  His voice is quiet now, but laced with panic.

"Yeah," I manage, but I sound feeble even to my own assaulted ears.  My eyes are shut tight against the images, the flashing lights, but it doesn't help.  I swallow reflexively, trying to rid my mouth of the acrid taste of fear.

"Josh?"

I open my eyes slowly, and the room slides into focus.  I guess I never made it out of the conference room.  Toby is standing before me tense.

"Toby," I say, for lack of anything better.

"Yeah," he answers on a small puff of air, half sigh of relief, half self-deprecating chuckle.  He shifts a little, one shoulder lifting in a shrug.  "What happened?"

"I don't know," I admit.  "Molly called."

Toby's eyebrows raise just a little.  "Is everything okay?"

"Marginally."  I swivel my neck, stretch my shoulders, ease the rigidity of my back.

"Marginally?" Toby repeats.

I glance over at him and realize how my answer must sound.  "Molly's fine," I assure him.  "Donna too.  They're flying up."

"Good," he says, still watching me very closely.  "That's good. Josh..."

I nod, because I know what he's asking.  "Yeah. I had--"  There are really no words to describe the flashbacks, at least not words that do the experience justice, so I choose the least offensive euphemism.  "An episode."

Toby dips his chin the slightest bit.

"It's fine, Toby.  Really."

He finally sits, turning the chair a little so that he's almost facing me.  "I didn't know you still--"

"I don't.  Not usually."

"So then why--"

"Molly found out about Rosslyn," I tell him.  Toby's eyes widen, and I can feel myself smiling bitterly.  "Yeah.  Some little punk at her school told her, and she didn't understand that it happened a long time ago--"

"So she called to make sure you were..."  He lets the sentence trail off.

"Yeah.  I've never heard her like that."  I stare at the tabletop, tracing glyphs.  "She was inconsolable."

The word hangs there for a moment.  Until Toby says, "And then you had the..."  He stumbles a bit over the word.  "...episode?"

I shrug.  "Apparently."

"Huh," he replies.

Frustrated, I push a hand through my hair.  "I can't do this right now!"  I am so angry at myself, so angry that I'm weak enough to capitulate to my demons when my daughter needs me whole and healthy and strong.  What kind of father am I?

"Do what?" Toby asks, perplexed.

"Have a--"  I gesture wildly.  "A thing!  A relapse -- whatever you want to call it, I can't do this now."

"Josh--"

"My daughter needs me to be stable," I continue, oblivious to Toby's soft protests.  "I have to make her understand that I'm okay.  I can't flip out right now; I don't have that luxury.  And Donna!  Donna doesn't need this kind of stress, especially not with the preg--"  I bite off my tirade, but it's too late.

Toby stares at me for a moment.  "Donna's pregnant?"

"Yeah, but you didn't hear that from me."

"Sure."

I push away from the table and stand, my legs still a bit weak from all of that adrenaline.  "But you see why I can't do this now?"

"Josh," Toby says, his words measured, "did it ever occur to you that all of this other stuff happening right now is why you had an episode?"

I turn a cutting glare his way.  "What?  Are you a psychologist all of a sudden?  One best-seller and you understand the inner workings of--"

"Josh." Toby shrugs, unfazed.  "It's just an observation."

"That last thing I need right now," I begin cruelly, "is an unsolicited--"

"Josh."

I whirl toward the door to find Governor Susan Douglas-Radford watching me with a concerned look.  "Is everything okay?"

I blink a few times, bringing my unjustified anger under control.  "Yeah."

"You sure?" she presses, glancing over at Toby.

"I'm sure," I answer, my jaw clenching.

Donna's not here, Molly's not here, and I feel like I'm trapped back in that dark space I thought I'd escaped years ago.

"Molly's okay?" Douglas-Radford asks.

It takes me a moment to process the question.  "Yeah.  She and Donna are flying up tomorrow."

"Good," the Governor answers.  "That'll be good."

I force a smile and a nod. I t'll be good, I tell myself.  Everything will be fine.

God, I hope everything will be fine.

*

As it turns out, after my little episode in the conference room, yesterday was pretty much a loss.  I couldn't seem to get back into the swing of things, not even to fix the Finnigan thing.  I tripped over my words in front of a reporter (but luckily, this particular reporter was personally acquainted with CJ Cregg's unique form of punishment and let me correct it before she filed her story), and I had to leave the Governor's de facto war room when Garrett, the deputy press secretary, turned on his music.  I wasn't hearing sirens, but I wasn't sure how long that would last.

The look Toby gave me as I mumbled an excuse and left was unnerving.

And so I decided to call it a night at four in the afternoon and collapsed onto my bed.  Within minutes, I was asleep; I didn't wake from the strange dreams until the phone rang.  It was Donna, calling to give me the details for their flight, and so that I could read to Molly.

Even talking to my daughter didn't settle my nerves; in fact, the new note of fear and anxiety in her voice just made things worse.

Let's just skip right over the hideous night I had and talk about today.  Very little sleep, and a not-so-minor crisis brewing on the campaign.  Thankfully, Donna and Molly are arriving at 11, which means I can leave the mess for Toni to handle and head for the airport.

Their flight is a little late, and I pace the terminal restlessly.  I have never been a nervous flyer, but put the two most important people in the world to me on a plane and I'm suddenly trying to remember exactly how a jet engine works.

I stare at the monitor for a while, willing the arrival time to magically, you know, arrive, then give in and buy another coffee.  I'm already on edge, but I'm also lethargic.  So why not throw some caffeine into the mix?

Finally, their plane arrives.  When Donna and Molly walk into the terminal, my heart breaks again.  Molly, my fearless-to-the-point-that-she-scares-the-hell-out-of-me daughter, is clinging to Donna's hand.  Her head is down, and she's peering out from under her bangs like she's intimidated by her surroundings.  Molly, who's been to more airports in her short life than many people my age, afraid of the airport terminal.  I have the sudden, not-nice urge to pound the little twit who did this to my daughter.  I don't care at the moment that he's probably some mean-spirited five-year-old whose parents bear the ultimate responsibility for raising him to be a little punk.

Donna sees me first, and some of the tension in her frame eases.  She flashes me a grateful look, then leans down and says something to Molly.  Her tiny blonde head jerks up, but it takes her a second to locate me.  I wave, and then her eyes light up and she's running full tilt at me.

I drop to my knees and catch her.  To be honest, she hits me like a linebacker, and it takes serious effort to remain upright.  Somehow I don't think Donna would let me forget it if our four-year-old successfully tackled me.

"Daddy," Molly says, her voice tremulous.  "Daddy, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Molly," I tell her, pushing to my feet with her in my arms.  Her hands are clutching at my back, and I hold her as tightly as I can.  "See?  I'm right here.  I'm fine."  I bury my face momentarily in her purple sweater and breathe in the smell of baby shampoo.

"Daddy, I thought you were hurt."  She leans back to examine my face, reaching out with those tiny baby hands.  Her fingers touch my cheeks, trailing down to my chin.  "Derek said you were shot in your heart."

Briefly, I meet Donna's eyes over Molly's shoulder.  "Derek's wrong."  I don't lie to my daughter; the bullet hit my pulmonary artery, not my heart.  Besides which, the airport isn't conducive to this kind of conversation.  Donna nods, silently agreeing.

"I don't want you to be shot," Molly tells me, quite seriously.

I manage a smile.  "I don't want me to be shot either."  It wasn't all that much fun the first time around.  I shift Molly a little and reach out to Donna with my newly freed hand.  Donna got the worst of it last time, having to deal with my recovery.  I had almost the entire White House staff at my beck and call, but chose to rely almost exclusively on Donna.  Who had no one to rely on but herself.

She amazes me.  I pull her to me and give her a kiss.

"How was your flight?"

"Good," Donna answers, her bright tone a little bit forced.  She reaches out and smoothes Molly's hair back, then tangles her hand with mine.  "We saw the monuments from the plane, didn't we, Molly?"

Molly nods, but I'm pretty sure she hasn't taken her eyes off of me yet.  "Did you get shot, Daddy?"

God, are we going to have to do this here?  I give Donna a desperate look and she comes to my rescue, touching Molly's arm.  "Molly, I told you.  Daddy was shot a long time ago, before you were born, and he's fine now."

My daughter studies me some more, her brown eyes intent.  "Okay," she says finally.  Then she wraps her little arms around my neck and nearly chokes me with the ferocity of her hug.

I blink frantically, swallow hard, and manage not to lose it.  "Donna?"

Those blue eyes of hers are clouded.  "I know," she says softly.  "Later."

Right.  Later.

Later tonight, we'll just sit Molly down and tell her the story of Rosslyn.

I squeeze Donna's hand, and we head for the baggage claim.  If I'm lucky, between now and then, someone will tell me how to explain to my daughter something I've never been able to comprehend fully myself.

***

Molly was only a few hours old when she staked her claim on Toby.  Predictably, he came into the hospital room well after CJ and Sam had arrived, using the excuse that since "the entire damn West Wing" had taken up residence in my hospital room, he might as well join them.  The whole "put upon, dragged here against my will" facade was pretty much destroyed by his arriving with an armload of children's books.  CJ had raised an eyebrow and inquired whether Toby was aware that Molly wouldn't be learning to read for a few years yet and maybe Tales From Shakespeare, Little Women, and A Child's Guide to the Torah wouldn't be her first choices as a toddler.

I was exhausted, the epidural had long since worn off, and I was pretty much spinning between elation that this amazing little person was mine and utter conviction that sex was a very bad thing and I never wanted to have it again.  Plus, this voice somewhere in the back of my head kept insisting that Zelda Eustacia was a perfectly sensible name.

All of which is by way of explaining why I almost missed what happened next.  It was only when I noticed that the oohing and aahing around Molly's crib had taken on a different quality that I snapped out of my reverie and started paying attention.

"This is the damnedest thing I've ever seen," CJ was saying.

"What?" I asked.  I had that new mother's note of rising panic in my voice.  "Is something wrong?"

"She's smiling."  Sam sounded amazed.  Also disappointed.  "She is smiling at Toby."

"She's too young to smile," my mother-in-law argued.  "It's gas."

Those of our friends and coworkers who were unfamiliar with babies (and frankly that was most of our friends and coworkers) moved away from the crib.  Toby and Josh stayed put.

Sam moved back toward the crib and took a slow, appraising look.  "I wouldn't call it a smile so much as I'd call it a look of recognition."

"Recognition?" Josh asked.  "She's three hours old; she's never seen Toby before.  How can there be recognition?  If she recognizes anyone here, it should be me.  I've been talking to Donna's tummy for months."

"Tummy?" Sam asked, grinning maniacally.  "Josh, did you just use the word 'tummy'?"

"It's a perfectly serviceable word.  And all the books say that talking to the mother's tum... uh... stomach help the child develop verbal skills," Josh replied.

"He likes to sing to her too," I added.  Having just endured the pain of childbirth, I was not going to let a perfectly good chance to humiliate my husband pass by.

"Too much information," CJ said.  "Anyway, Sam's right.  Molly's expression is more like 'Oh, look, here's Toby.'  Not 'who the hell is the weird guy with the beard?'"

Through all of this, I noticed, Toby said not a word.  CJ swears he was too busy smiling back at Molly.  And though he's never said a word about it, Toby was clearly enchanted by my daughter.  He's been completely under her spell for four years.

But in a uniquely Tobyesque manner.

Throughout Molly's infancy, our friends and co-workers cooed over my daughter.  Some of them talked baby talk to her.  (The sentence "Wittle Mollykins woves her Uncle Sammy, doesn't she?" still sends Josh into uncontrollable laughter.)  Toby, on the other hand, was more likely to notice me holding the baby, nod solemnly and say, "Good afternoon, Molly."

Molly, from birth, definitely preferred that form of address to baby talk.  Baby talk, I swear, made her scowl.  Toby talking as though he expected her understand proper English?  She adored it.

When Molly was about twenty-three months old, we roped Toby into watching her for an hour.  We handed over Molly's favorite storybook -- The Monster at the End of This Book -- assuring Toby that after he'd read it to her three or four times, she'd take a nap.  Although I would have paid money to hear Toby as the voice of Grover, he tossed the book aside.  "Molly and I," he informed us, "have an understanding."

Molly nodded in agreement.  "No baby books," she announced.

Toby moved to his bookshelf.  "What should we read?" he asked her.  "Politics or literature?"

Which was when Molly, in a moment that Josh will still be telling people about on his death bed, narrowed her eyes, thrust her tiny chin out as far as she could, and rested her hands on her hips.  "I'm a Lyman," she proclaimed.

Toby nodded.  "Right," he said, taking the appropriate tome from the shelf.  "Politics it is."

Which is how my daughter became conversant in the various planks of the Democratic Party platform.

Both Josh and Toby swear she understood every word.  Me, I think she just liked the sound of Toby's voice.

But my point is this:  Toby has never treated Molly like a child.  He is simply himself with her, and he expects her to question him about anything she doesn't comprehend.

Molly, of course, adores her Uncle Toby.  She may not see him as often as she sees Uncle Sam, he may not call every week or send gifts like Aunt CJ, but she is crazy about this person who insists on treating her like a very short adult.

As for how much Toby loves Molly, I found that out the day we got an advance copy of his book, the dedication of which simply reads "For Molly."

For weeks, she carried that book around with her everywhere we went.  She would reverently open it to the dedication and tell anyone she met, "My Uncle Toby wrote this book just for me."

Which is why I'm glad Toby's in Pittsburgh.  Molly consciously understands that her father is all right and that the shooting happened a long time ago.  But something's still bothering her.  Every now and then, she falls back into uncharacteristically babyish behavior.  She's been clinging to me ever since I picked her up from school yesterday.  Not surprisingly, since we were reunited with Josh at the airport, she hasn't wanted to let him out of her sight.  Even the things she usually enjoys -- the plane trip here, for example -- seem to have lost some of their luster for her.

I want my fearless Molly back.

So I'm hoping that Toby -- with his matter-of-fact attitude and his tendency to treat Molly as just another adult -- will help set her back on an even keel.

Toby and Molly's reunion gets off to a promising start.  Toby, Governor Douglas-Radford and her Chief of Staff Toni Timian are waiting for us in the Governor's suite.  Molly is on her best behavior, greeting Toni and the Governor with a polite "Hello, ma'am" and the firm handshake Josh taught her.  (I believe that a lecture on the importance of the handshake to the art of the political deal may have been involved.)  Then she sees Toby standing in the back of the room, and she beams. "Uncle Tobus!" she screams in delight.

Toni raises an amused eyebrow.  "Tobus?" she asks.

"A very bad habit Molly picked up from CJ Cregg," Toby explains.  "Molly," he says gently to my daughter, "I thought we'd discussed this before."

"But it's fun," Molly protests.

"Not for me," Toby replies.

"But I want to be like Aunt CJ!"

"Normally a lofty goal," Toby says, and you can almost see the beginning of what, on anyone else, would be a smile.  "This, however, is the exception."

Molly frowns, her brow puckering up the way it does when she's working something out.  Taking my hand, she drags me to an empty corner of the room.  "Was I mocking again?" she asks.

"Maybe a little," I reply gently.

"Then how come Aunt CJ calls him Tobus?"

"Aunt CJ gives nicknames to all her men friends.  Even your Uncle Leo."

Molly's eyes widen at the thought of anyone addressing Leo with less than grandfatherly respect.  "What's she call him?"

"Leopold.  And she calls Sam Spanky.  Or Sparky, depending on her mood."

"What's she call Daddy?"

"Mi amor.  That means 'my love.'"

Judging from Molly's scowl, she doesn't much care for that one.  "Daddy's your me amory."

"Yes, he is.  But that's okay.  It's teasing.  They all put up with it from Aunt CJ because they know that's how she says 'I love you.'  It's kind of Aunt CJ's special thing, and other people shouldn't copy it."

"Oh."  Molly thinks this over for a minute.  "I need a special thing, like Aunt CJ."

"You're pretty special all by yourself," I point out.

She give me her "I'm a Lyman, so I already know that" look.  "Maybe I'll just tell people I love them," she says.  "That's special, isn't it?"

"That's very special," I agree, "but Uncle Toby--"

Before I can finish my speech on how Uncle Toby isn't always comfortable with open displays of affection, Molly skips back over to where he's waiting for her.

"Hello, Uncle Toby," she says in her most grown-up voice.  "I love you."

It isn't every day you see Toby Ziegler at a loss for words.

***

I am exhausted.

I should get off of this couch and go back up to the Governor's suite.  I should definitely find my daughter and reassure her -- again -- that I'm fine.  But that means getting into the shooting and its aftermath and I just can't.

My back is aching, my head is pounding, and I just can't make myself get up.  The episode from yesterday is too fresh.  Molly's already scared -- she clung to me in a way she hasn't since... well, ever.  The last thing she needs is to see her father sweating and cringing and totally out of it.

What if I start to tell her about Rosslyn and end up trapped in a flashback?  What kind of damage will I inflict on my daughter?

I have the sudden urge to go press my back against the wall, but I think I'm too stiff to get up.

"Josh?"

I open one eye and see Donna in the doorway.  That's odd. I didn't even hear the lock.  Granted, keycard locks aren't particularly loud, but you'd think I'd have heard something.

"Yeah?"

"Did you talk to--"

"Yeah."

"How'd it go?"

"As well as can be expected. Finnigan's not gonna stop--" I blink a couple of times.  "Where's Molly?"

Donna reaches the couch and pushes my feet out of her way.  "With Toby."

"You left our four-year-old daughter with Toby Ziegler?"

"Yes."  Donna's watching me very carefully.  "He was teaching her how to spell 'obfuscate.'"

"Why?"

"I have no idea."

I watch her studying me, and I know she knows.  She can smell the damn episode on me.  That or Toby told her.  "Look, it wasn't a big deal."

"Josh."  She sounds so distraught.  I have to look away.

"Really, Donna, it's okay. It was just--"  I stare at my hands, examining the small paper cut on my thumb.  "I wasn't expecting, you know, the thing with Molly.  It threw me."

"Yeah."  Her hand is on my back, rubbing in slow, soothing strokes.  I can't help but lean into her touch.  "Josh, your muscles are tense."

I exhale slowly.  "Yeah, I had noticed that."  I attempt a grin and fail miserably.  I still can't look at her, though, so she probably missed it.

"Lie down," she whispers.

"I don't want to sleep."  I actually do want to sleep, but I really don't want the nightmares.

"I'm not suggesting you take a nap," she says, a hint of humor in her voice.  "Turn over and I'll work on your muscles."

It takes some effort, but I struggle against the couch cushions until I'm face down.  Moments later, Donna's weight settles onto my thighs and those amazing, strong hands dig into my back.  She coaxes and cajoles, and I relax by increments under her ministrations.  Some of the tension escapes me via the stray tears slipping down my cheeks.

I press my face into the cushion.  I don't want to be this guy.  I don't want to be broken.  I don't want Donna to have to care for Molly, Josiah, and her own damn husband.  But somehow, even when I'm like this, even when she has to heal me with her touch, she never makes me feel weak.

I don't understand it, but she makes me a stronger man.

"Josh?"  Her voice is low.

"Donna."  Just her name, but we've been married long enough for her to understand what I can't say.  Wordlessly, she lifts up, balancing on her knees above me as I turn over.

"Feeling better?" she asks, one hand on the back of the couch, the other resting on my stomach.

I reach for her and she meets me halfway, her kisses as desperate as I feel.  I need this.  I need her.

It is quick and intense and loving, and soon I'm on the skinny edge of losing control.  But this time, I'm not alone in a conference room being assailed by sirens and imaginary bullets.

This time, I'm lost in Donna, and this time, it's okay for me to let go.  Because I trust her to catch me.

***

"We have to tell her today, you know."

Josh, who has been kissing my abdomen for the last minute, looks up at me.  His skin is still all hot and sweaty from our lovemaking, and he has this adorably puzzled look on his face.

I hope Toby's enjoying his visit with Molly.  Josh and I may not be joining them for another hour or so.

"I thought we weren't going to tell her for another couple of weeks," Josh says.  "Until you start your second trimester."

"Not that."

Josh's hair is damp and starting to curl; running my fingers through it is way too much fun.  "About the other thing.  Rosslyn."

Josh lets go of me and rolls over to his side of the bed.  When he winces, I make a mental note to call housekeeping later and have them send up extra pillows for his back.  "I don't want this in her life," he says.

"I know.  But it's already there, and it's scaring her."

"Molly's frightened?"  Josh starts to jump out of bed; he's halfway to his feet before I manage to pull him back down beside me.

"She's with Toby right now," I remind Josh.  "She's happy.  I just mean that she's worried.  It's that damn Lyman brooding gene, you know.  It's completely your fault."

"You sure it's not the Moss Mother Hen Syndrome?"

"There is no such thing."

"Says the woman who walked in off the street and took over my life before I knew what was happening."

"And you're a better person for it."

"Yes," he says, and I can tell from this ragged note in his voice how serious he is.  "Yes, I am."

Honestly, you'd think that people who have been married almost seven years wouldn't spend so much time making out.  Sometimes I wonder whether there's something wrong with us.

"Whoever she inherited this from," I point out when we've finished the latest round of kissing, "Molly's not going to feel secure again until we've explained it all to her."

"I hate this," Josh says.  Obviously, the Lyman Brooding Gene is working overtime today.  "I hate that we keep carrying this thing around with us.  I hate that I still have to check in with the doctors more than a healthy man my age should, I hate having to worry about the long-term effects of the damn surgery, I hate that now it's spilled over into Molly's life too."

"Josh."  I run my hand softly over the scar on his chest.  "We knew she'd have to hear about it someday.  It's a little sooner than we expected is all.  We'll talk to her tonight after dinner."

"Hardly what I'd call a happy bedtime story."

"Oh, I don't know."  I smile because I know now how to explain it so Molly isn't frightened.  "It has a pretty good ending, what with you being all helpless and begging me to marry you."

"Begging?  There was no begging."

"Cajoling, perhaps?"

"Well, this is certainly revisionist history."

"And Molly's going to love that part."

"So we gloss over the bad stuff and feed her the happy ending?"

"We tell her as much of the truth as a four-year-old can handle.  Then we emphasize the happy ending."

Before Josh can raise any more objections, I stand up and toss a pair of jeans at him.  "Now get dressed," I tell him.  "I'm fairly certain Toby's getting tired of playing babysitter."

***

When Donna and I arrive at the Governor's suite, my daughter turns to me calmly and says, "Oh.  Hi, Daddy.  Uncle Toby and I aren't done yet."

I feel my eyebrows lifting.  "Aren't done what?"

She looks over at Toby for a moment, and he gives her an encouraging nod.  "Go ahead, Molly."

Turning back to us, Molly puffs out her little chest and says, "'We the people, in order to form a more perfect union, establish tranquility--'"

"Justice," Toby murmurs, his dark eyes watching her with what, in someone else, I would call pride.

"I know!" Molly tells him, and the exasperated expression on her face is too adorable.  Donna and I exchange glances, and I can tell she's trying hard not to laugh.  Our daughter rolls her eyes and continues, "'establish justice, and sure fantastic tranquility--'"

I can't help it, I start laughing.  She is just too cute, standing there, her hair falling out of the purple barrettes as she recites the Preamble.

Molly glares at me, and so do her mother and her uncle.  "Daddy, it's not nice to mock people."

And now Donna's laughing, and Toby does not look unamused.

"I wasn't mocking," I protest.  "I was teasing."

Crossing her little arms, Molly gives me an appraising look.  "You were laughing at me."

Donna shakes her head. " No, honey, he was laughing with you."

Molly turns to Toby.  "Uncle Toby, Daddy was laughing at me."

Now Toby looks mildly nauseated.  Ensuring the domestic tranquility of the Moss-Lyman family is probably not high on his list of favorite things to do.  "No," he says finally.  "He wasn't."

"Was too."

"He wasn't mocking you," Toby says, somewhat gruffly.  He pats the empty spot next to him; and after a moment of deliberation, Molly joins him on the couch.  "Daddies don't mock their children."

Donna whacks me in the arm and whispers, "See?"

"He's very--"  Toby clears his throat and shoots an uncomfortable look in our direction.  "He's proud of you, Molly.  You're a very smart little girl."

Molly stares up at him with a small frown.  "I'm a big girl," she reminds him.

"Yeah," I tell her around the curious lump in my throat.  "Only big girls can recite the Preamble."

She practically glows with pride.  "I know."

I glance over at Toby, and he's watching me, waiting for some sort of signal, I guess.  I nod the slightest bit, and he sits up straight, touching Molly very briefly on the shoulder.  "Are you going to practice?"

"Yes!" Molly answers.

"And tomorrow you'll be able to recite it to me?"

"Yes!"

Donna leans in close, lowering her voice so neither of them can hear.  "Do you think he'd be pissed if I taught her the song?"

"What song?" I ask.

"Oh, right."  She grins.  "They didn't have Schoolhouse Rock back in the--"

"I am not old.  I just didn't watch a lot of television as a kid," I protest.

"You're old enough not to know the Preamble song," she answers, grinning.

"I didn't need a song," I tell her.  "My memory--"  And then the sound of Molly's laughter reaches me, and I am so relieved.  She's sitting on the couch, her eyes sparkling as she watches us bicker.  It's a common sight in the Moss-Lyman household.  Debate is our little way of showing affection, and Molly knows it.

"Okay," Toby says, grabbing his ever-present legal pad.  "I've got work to do.  Josh, you talked to--"

"Taken care of," I interrupt.

"Good."  He looks down at Molly.  "I think it's time for you to go practice.  And don't let your mother cheat and teach you the song."

Molly beams up at him. "'Kay.  G'night, Uncle Toby."

***

"What are you drawing?"

Molly turns her attention from the picture she's creating from a piece of hotel stationary and the crayons I discovered in the bottom of her backpack.  "I'm making a picture of Mommy and me so you won't be lonely when you're in 'Sylvania and we're in Washington."

Josh and I have a "look at what we made" moment as we smile at each other while Molly puts the finishing touches on her picture.  She's biting her lip, her chubby fingers are covered with stains from the blue pen she used when we couldn't find a blue crayon in her backpack, and one sock is about to fall off her foot as a result of the way she keeps tapping her heel against the back of her chair.  She doesn't seem traumatized at all.  Maybe we can just skip this whole "let's explain Rosslyn" thing for a few more years.

Josh balances himself on his knees so he can get a good view of the drawing resting on the table.  "So I guess the tall one is you, huh?" he asks her.

Molly giggles, and I realize how much I've missed hearing that sound.  "No, silly," she says.  "That's me." She jabs a finger at the smaller of the two figures with their identical yellow hair.  Stick-figure Molly wears a purple skirt; stick-figure Donna is clad in blue.

I sit down on the floor by Molly's right.  "Is that our house?" I ask.  It's more or less a square, colored in brown, with a lopsided triangle for a roof.

"And that's my room," Molly answers, indicating the only window she's drawn for the house.

"What's this?" Josh points toward a strangely shaped blob at stick-figure Molly's feet.

"That's my dog."

"You don't have a dog," I remind her.

"Not yet.  But maybe for my next birthday."

"Molly, what have we said about pets?" Josh asks.

Molly gives it her best shot.  "That they're lots of fun, and all little girls should have one?"

"Not while we're living in this house, remember?" Josh jabs a finger toward the house in Molly's drawing.

Molly studies her father's face for a minute.  Apparently, she decides he can't be played tonight, which is strange, because I think she could convince Josh to buy a dog, a cat and a house in a suburb far from the Hill.

"I drew a rainbow," she says.  "Like in Noah's ark.  So nothing bad will ever happen while we live in this house."

Josh pulls Molly into his arms and hugs her tight.  He looks over at me, and we're thinking the same thing -- that we simply want to keep her here in this moment when she's safe from danger.  That we don't want to ever send her out into a world where she can be hurt, where people do unspeakable things, where not everyone will realize that Molly Jordan Moss-Lyman deserves the happiest life a child could possibly have.

And now the two people who are supposed to protect her have to tell her how violence touched our own lives.

"Bedtime," I finally manage to tell her.  Josh gives me a pleading look; he wants to do this even less than I do, obviously.  But Molly is too much like her father; she won't let go of this subject until her questions are answered to her satisfaction.  And, frankly, one Lyman with a tendency toward nightmares is more than I can deal with.

She settles into bed between Josh and me too quickly.  There's none of her usual attempts to negotiate a later bedtime, and she continues to cling to her father.  Molly has always been an affectionate child and, because she's inherited my superior taste, she adores her father.  This refusal to let Josh out of her grasp, however -- this is something new.

I'm so looking forward to siccing The Wrath of Lyman on Mrs. Lau, her assistant and Derek's father.

The question at the moment, however, is how to ease this frightened child into a discussion of things she shouldn't have to face.

Well, she's a Lyman, after all.  When in doubt, appeal to her ego.

"Molly, you're a big girl now, right?"

Molly Jordan Moss-Lyman, who usually proclaims her advanced age to any and all who will listen, shakes her head and I silently appeal to Josh for help.

There's nothing like six years of marriage to teach two people how to read each other's nonverbal signals.  "Sure you are."  Josh tilts her head up so that she's looking him in the eye.  "You're four.  Practically ready for college."

Molly rolls her eyes at her ridiculous male parent.  "I'm in preschool."

Josh, I can tell, bites back a remark about how he's considering sending Molly to a different preschool.  "Are you sure?" he asks.  "'Cause you look old enough for college."

"Daddy!"  God, I've missed Molly's exasperated-with-her-parents tone.

"So, since you're a big girl," I add, "we can talk to you about important stuff."

Molly burrows deeper into the covers.  "Scary," she says.

Both Josh and I seem to be waiting for the other to take over the conversation.  I remain quiet because it has to be Josh.  He's the only person she'll accept this from.  As difficult as it is to ignore the pleading look in his eyes, I silently mouth the words "tell her."  Whether he agrees or whether he thinks I'm simply being stubborn, he takes a deep breath, puts a hand on Molly's back and says, "No, Molly, it's not."

Molly's head resurfaces from under the blankets.  "How come?" she asks.

"Because it was a long time ago and it's all over," Josh explains.  "Because I'm fine.  There's nothing to be scared of."

"Bad man won't come back and shoot you again?"

"No," I answer before Josh can get tangled up describing the difference between the bastards who shot him and all the other bad men in the world who might decide to pick up a gun someday.  "They can never come back."

"You sure?" Molly asks.

"Very sure."  Oh, God, do I have to explain that sometimes the good guys have to kill?  How do I make that not sound hypocritical?  "You remember the Secret Service?"

Molly nods.  "They follow Sir Jed around.  So he's safe."  She climbs off her father and over to me.  Whispering in my ear, she announces, "Sir Jed told me he doesn't like it much."

Ignoring for the moment the President's comment and my daughter's preferred mode of address, I answer, "Well, the Secret Service did a very good job that day.  They made sure the bad men won't come back."

It's possible that Molly, who's spent most of her life in the West Wing, simply believes in the magical powers of the Secret Service so much that she needs no other answer for now.  Or maybe the mention of the President distracted her.  "Sir Jed was there when Daddy got shot?" she asks.

Once again, we're flummoxed.  How much do we tell her?  Charlie, Zoey, the President, Leo, Sam, Toby, CJ -- the only adults she loves who are missing from that list are Evan, Josh's mother and me.  Will we scare her more if we list all those names?

I want my daughter to feel safe, but I also want her to know that her parents will always tell her the truth.  How do I accomplish both those goals in this case?

Luckily for me, Josh takes over the story.  "The President was there," he tells Molly.  "So were a lot of other people."

My arms are wrapped around Molly's waist.  Her gaze is focused on Josh, but I want her to know I've got her in my arms, that she's safe with her parents no matter how many bad men there are in the world.  I only wish I could figure out a way to hold Josh through all this too.

"Why did the bad men shoot you?" Molly asks.

"They weren't trying to shoot me, honey," Josh explains.  "I just -- they shot lots of bullets, and one of them hit me."

"Did it hurt?"

It's a simple question, but it reminds me of too many things -- Josh joking with me on the phone seconds before he stepped outside and almost died, Josh looking so quiet and pale and bewildered in the hours after the surgery, Josh struggling to regain his strength in the weeks after the shooting.

"Yeah," Josh replies quietly.  "It hurt a lot.  But it was a long, long time ago, Molly.  It doesn't hurt anymore."

Molly breaks out of my grasp and throws her arms around her father's neck.  "Molly," I say, rubbing her back, "it's okay.  Daddy feels fine now."

***

As much as I appreciate my wife's confidence in me, I feel anything but fine right now.  My innocent daughter is clinging to me, her arms squeezing as tightly as she can manage, because she's worried and scared I can't do anything to alleviate it.  I can't fix this.

Shouldn't I be able to fix this?

I meet Donna's eyes over the top of Molly's blonde head and recognize the same look of ragged desperation in her face.  What can we do to make this easier for her?  To make it better?  I'm at a loss, reduced to holding her tiny body to mine, cradling her head in the palm of my hand.

Then she struggles against me, pulling back to look up at me with those big brown eyes.  "Where does it hurt, Daddy?" she asks.

I can't seem to answer.  I just stare down at her, silent, until I feel Donna's hand against my chest.  Reluctantly, I break Molly's gaze and glance at Donna.  There are tears running down her cheeks, but she nods slowly.  "Show her."

Show her.  Show my daughter the scars.  Molly's seen them, of course, but she's never thought twice about where they came from; they've just always been there.

Trembling at the prospect, I dip my chin once in agreement.  Donna carefully unbuttons my shirt.  I can't seem to let go of Molly; I leave my arms wrapped around her, looser now that she's not pressed tight against my chest, but holding her nonetheless.

Donna's slim hand rests for a moment over my heart, then she wraps herself back around Molly, telling me without words that I need to do the rest.  I take a shaky breath and bring Molly's small hand to my mouth, kissing her fingers before I let go.  I fumble briefly with my shirt, pulling the edges apart to expose the silvery scar bisecting my chest.

I glance momentarily at Donna, drawing strength from her, as always.

Tracing the smooth skin with one finger, I tell my daughter.  "Here, Molly.  This is where it hurt."

Her brow furrows.  "The white line?"

"That's where the doctors did their work," Donna tells her.  It's a good thing too, because I don't think I could explain with any coherency right now.  Donna gently brushes Molly's blonde locks out of her face.  "Your Daddy had the best doctors, Molly, and they fixed him right up."

Well, almost right up, I amend silently.  Nothing much they could do about the back pain or the risk of heart attack or, you know, the PTSD.

"Oh." Molly says, still examining my skin.  "Daddy, did you get shot in your heart?"

"No, honey," I manage.  "I told you that.  I got shot--"  I pull the material out of the way, showing her the small, puckered gunshot wound low on my ribcage.  "Here."

Her small fingers touch the scar tentatively, looking up at me for permission.

"It's okay," I tell her.  "It doesn't hurt anymore."  Not there, anyway.

She rubs the rough skin a little bit.  "That's where it hurt?"

"Yeah.  That's where it hurt."

And then my four-year-old daughter leans over and kisses my scar.  My arms tighten around her, and I swallow hard.

Molly looks up at me expectantly.  "Does that feel better, Daddy?"

I choke a little, stumbling over my words.  "Yes, honey," I tell her.  "It feels much better."

Donna stifles a sob and presses a kiss to Molly's blonde head.  "You're the sweetest girl in the whole world, Molly."

Molly shrugs, still looking back and forth between my surgical scar and my face, searching for some sort of connection, I guess.  "I don't want Daddy to hurt," she says matter-of-factly.

"I don't, honey," I assure her.  "Not anymore."

"Mommy," she asks, rolling a little to look at Donna.  "Do you hurt?"

"No, Molly.  I don't anymore," Donna answers.  "We got a happy ending."

Molly stares up at her, puzzled.  "We did?"

"Absolutely.  Your father got better, and then he begged me to marry him."

"I did not!" I protest, but I'm smiling.

"Daddy!"  Molly turns back to me, delighted.  "You begged Mommy to marry you?"

I can't disappoint her, not when she's happy like this.  So I bite back all the logical arguments and factual recountings of the events surrounding our marriage and nod.  "Yes, Molly.  I asked her to marry me."

"You begged," Molly decides.

"Possibly, I cajoled," I allow.  Donna snickers into the pillow.

Molly, though, looks confused.  "What does cajoed mean?"

"Cajoled," Donna corrects, emphasizing the 'L.'  "And it means that your father resorted to false promises and flattery to convince me to marry him."

"False promises!" I repeat, flabbergasted.  "What false promises?"

"Have you ever stopped asking me to get you coffee?" she demands.

"I only ask when other people are around."

Donna rolls her eyes.  "Josh, other people have known for six years; it's not like you have to keep up appearances."

Damn.  Fair point.  "Fine.  There may have been some cajoling on my part."  I smile down at my daughter, who still looks amused.  "Unintentional cajoling."

Molly grins.  "You begged."

"He did," Donna agrees, giving her a kiss.

After a long moment of silence, Molly scrunches back down into the bed, getting comfortable.  When she looks up at me, I can see the old Molly, my fearless, cheerful little girl.  She's still sad, still a little off-kilter, but I know she's going to be fine.  Especially when she smiles up at me and demands a bedtime story.  "And a good one too," she adds.

Donna and I exchange relieved looks, and I settle in, letting my shirt fall closed over my scars.  "What story, Molly?"

She must be sleepy; her eyes are already drifting shut.  "I wanna hear about the rainbow, Daddy."

Of course she does.  I reach for Donna, resting our joined hands on Molly's stomach as I begin to tell the story of Noah's Ark, this time including all manner of details.  I tell her about the reluctant giraffe who argued with Noah until he was allowed to bring his favorite tree branch, the nervous cougar who was very scared of boats and had to be coaxed on board by Noah's incredibly bright and compassionate granddaughter, and the wolf who stood watch, keeping the rest of the animals -- not to mention Noah and his family -- safe until the ark was fully loaded.

Molly falls asleep before I get to the rainbow, her breathing slow and even.  But I don't stop.  I finish the story.  I tell her about the rainbow above the arc, and the rainbow over our house.  I tell her that she's safe.

And then, exhausted myself, I let my eyes drift shut.  I'm still fully dressed, but I don't much care.

"Josh," Donna says softly.  "You want me to get your pajamas?"

I smile without opening my eyes.  "Nope."

Her hands are at my waist, unbuckling my belt.  "At least take this off.  And your shoes."  I comply, even managing to struggle out of my shirt without jostling Molly too much.  I hear the rustle of fabric, and then Donna slides back into bed.  Reaching over, my hand skims up her hip and comes to rest on the small swell of her stomach.

My eyes pop open. "Donna!"

"Ssh," she warns, glancing down at our sleeping daughter.

I just stare at my wife.  "Look," I tell her, my hand pressed against our son.  "Josiah."

She nods at me, her blue eyes sparkling.

I glance down at Molly's sleeping form.  "We'll have to have that conversation again with little Josiah."  I don't even want to think about it yet.

"Okay," Donna answers, her tone lightly teasing, "but we're not gonna call him that, right?"

"What do you mean?" I ask as she reaches over to turn off the light.  The dark is very deep and very soothing.

"Little Josiah," she answers.  "We don't want to give him a complex."

I match her light tone.  "Like any son of mine could have--"

"Josh, seriously," she interrupts, laughing softly.  "We need to decide what we're going to call the poor boy before he's born!  What should we call him for short?"

"For short?"

"Well, 'Josiah' is a little intimidating for someone who sleeps all day."  My eyes haven't yet adjusted to the dark, but I can picture the crinkle on her forehead as she thinks it over.  "What about Jed?"

"Yeah, I don't think that's gonna happen."

"Why not?"

Why not?  Is she serious?  "I don't even call Jed Bartlet 'Jed, 'Donna!"

"Jeb?" she suggests, amusement evident in her tone.

"Like those stupid signs for that Republican Governor?  Yeah, I don't think so."

"Well, do you have any suggestions?"

"Well..." I pause.  "No."

"So basically," Donna says, and I recognize the opening of one of her little mini-speeches.  I can't help but grin into the darkness as she continues, "you have no suggestions, which means it'll fall to me, as always, to give our son a nickname, even though we picked out these names years in advance specifically to avoid my unique--"

"Bizarre, even."

"--naming tendencies?"

God, I love this woman.  "You see, when you put it that way--"

"Joe?" she offers, her hand finding mine.

"No!"

"We could just call him Kennedy."

"Not Ken?"  I ask innocently.

"No, that sounds too much like an anatomically neutered doll."

"Donna!" I grimace.

"Well, you asked."  She thinks for a moment.  "Joss?"

"Is that even a name?"

"Yeah," she answers.  "It's uncommon.  It's got panache."

I pull her hand closer and kiss her knuckles gently.  "I'm buying a baby names book."

THE END

02.06.02