Strategy.

It's a crucial concept.

I learned that from Josh.

You should always have a strategy.  In fact, it's probably best if you have an alternate plan in case your original strategy fails.

I had a plan on May 17.  Oh, I was clever.  I had everything figured out.  Hadn't I managed, in my own subtle way, to defeat both Mandy Hampton and Joey Lucas?

My strategy was simple and elegant:  Wait it out.

Two years until re-election.  Four years after that.

Just wait it out.

Because, when everything was said and done, Josh hadn't needed Mandy, he didn't need Joey, he wouldn't need whomever he developed an irrational obsession for next.

No, the only woman Josh Lyman truly needed was me -- Donna Moss, personal assistant extraordinaire.

If he was too dense to understand that he needed me for reasons that had nothing to do with keeping track of his schedule, that was fine too.  After the events of last Christmas, I was all too aware of the fact that Josh and I couldn't act on our feelings until we left the White House.

And it wasn't as though I intended to stay home and learn to knit while Josh went out and got laid.  No, thank you; that was never part of my strategy.  I had learned a valuable lesson three years ago: don't pin all your hopes on a man.  That just never works out.

On May 17, as I went about my spring cleaning binge in the deputy chief of staff's office, I was thinking a lot about strategy and the conclusion I came to was this:

Sooner or later, he'll get a clue.  Not even Josh is that stupid.

Until then, get on with your life.  Have fun.

But don't give up on Josh.  'Cause, you know, sooner or later, he'll figure it out.

Being Josh, of course, he figured it out later.

And almost died in the process.

Will someone explain to me again why I love this man?

***

It's amazing, really, how small decisions can have such grandiose effects on our lives.  Of course, if you want to trace the chain of events, there were many decisions, big and small, which led to that phone call.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

It also wouldn't do to go too far back, to include misplaced mistletoe, irresistible cheesecake, Donna Moss in a bikini, and the temp from hell.  So I'll start with the afternoon of The Phone Call.

That's how I've come to think of it:  The Phone Call.

Which is silly.  The outcome might have been worse had I not lagged behind the rest of the staff.  But I'm an impatient man, and I had to call Donna at my first opportunity.

Such a small decision.

Now I don't believe in fate or predestination, but someone out there is bound and determined to hold me to my word.  I would like to suggest, you know, for the future, a nice, simple flat tire.  Or maybe a broken cellphone.  Because I gotta tell you, an assassination attempt seems a bit on the extreme side.

Well, if this introduction isn't proof enough that I was not, in any way, cut out for a communications job, I don't know what is.

All you really need to know is this:  I tried to be a nice guy and I ended up in intensive care.

I have learned my lesson.

***

"Feel free to go home early tonight," Josh says.

The earth shifts on its axis, and everything is topsy-turvy.

"What did you say, Joshua?"

"I said you should feel free to go home early," he answers, smiling in a way I do not trust.  Granted, I find it wise to be suspicious any time Josh Lyman smiles at me.  But there's something just, well off about this.

Unless...

"No, Josh," I say.

"No?"

"No to whatever you want.  I will not come in at five a.m. tomorrow; I will not work this weekend; and I will not under any circumstances clean that mess on your desk."

"I'm not asking."

"You're not?"

"I'm just telling you to go home."

"Now?"

"Now," he says.  He's still grinning, damn him, and I know he's pleased that he's got me so confused.

I scramble for a way to regain control of Moss v. Lyman, Section 7083.

"Well, Josh, in the rest of the world, anyone working from eight a.m. to six p.m. would be calling for overtime pay, but I do appreciate the sentiment."  I figure I'd better get out of the office before my benevolent dictator rethinks his position.

"Donna?"

Right.  I knew this was too good to be true.

"What is it, Josh?"

"You'll be going straight home, won't you?"

"Yes, I -- Josh, what are you planning?"

"Nothing.  Just asking."

He's lying.  He's up to something here, but I can't figure out what.

I'm too puzzled -- too busy trying to figure out his motives -- to come up with an appropriately witty reply.  I hate when he leaves me speechless.

I take one last look at Josh, who is smiling at this secret he's keeping from me.  He's practically bouncing on his heels with glee.  I shake my head, and I leave him.

God help me, I leave him.

***

I am feeling pretty good about myself.  Not that this is a particularly uncommon occurrence, but I do believe I have earned a bit of good karma.

I gave Donna a half-day.

Okay, so technically it's already 6 p.m.  But still -- I usually keep her here until at least 8 or 9, which qualifies this bit of kind-hearted generosity as a half-day.  At least in spirit.

"Josh."

I turn and find Sam hovering in my doorway.

"Samuel," I smile at him.  "Are we going?"

He gives me a dubious look.  "What's wrong with you?"

"What?"

"You're positively chipper," he says.

"Just basking in the glow."

"The glow?"

"Of my good karma."

"You know, " he says, "I don't think karma so much glows as it does... well, nothing."

"Boys," CJ pokes her head into my office.  "Load 'em up."

"'Load 'em up?'" I smirk.

"Josh, don't start," she warns.

"Okay," I agree.  Quite pleasantly, I might add.

CJ frowns at me.

"Good karma," Sam explains.  "I'm guessing he doesn't want to lose it by making fun of you."

"That's not all he'd lose," CJ says.

I snort and grab my jacket.

"So, the karma?" Sam says, trailing behind CJ and me as we head to the waiting cars.

"The good karma," I correct.

"Right," Sam says.  "What'd you do?"

"I gave Donna a half-day."

"I just saw her ten minutes ago," CJ says, shooting me a strange look.

"Yes."

"It's six o'clock, Josh," she points out.

"Yes."

"She got here at, what, 8 a.m.?"

"Yes."

"Well," Sam says, "technically--"

"I know, I know," I interrupt.  "It's the thought that counts."

"It's really not," CJ counters, climbing into the limo.

I settle next to her, and Sam takes the seat across from us.

CJ glances at me.  "So what'd she do?"

"Who?" I ask.

"Donna."

"What'd Donna do about what?"

"For the night off," CJ explains, exasperated.

"Oh," I say.  "Nothing."

"Nothing?" Sam asks.

"Nothing," I confirm.  "I figured she deserves it."

"Anyone who works for you longer than a day deserves it," CJ notes dryly.

"Well," I say, "I've been a little busy lately.  And Donna seemed kind of down..."  I'm getting an inkling of something here, like an almost-finished math problem.  But the solution eludes me.

Sam is still talking.  "You know, now that you point it out, Donna has seemed a bit less perky."

"Yeah," I say, half-listening.  It's like an algebra equation with one too many undefined variables.

"For the last week or two, actually," Sam says.

"Since Joey Lucas got here," I confirm.

My brain chooses this moment to finish the equation:  Donna has been depressed because Joey Lucas was here.  More to the point, Donnatella Moss was jealous because she thought I was interested in Joey Lucas.

And the only reason she'd be jealous is if she wanted me.

I grin like a bloody idiot.

"Josh?" Sam asks.

"Hmmm?" It occurs to me that I am in the presence of two of the four people who would hand me my ass if they even suspected I was thinking about what I'm thinking about.  I attempt to modify my expression.

I fail.

"Joshua," CJ says, her eyes narrowed.  "No.  Don't even think it."

"Think what?"  This stupid grin is kind of uncontrollable.

"I'm serious, Josh."

Sam is staring at us, confused.

"Don't worry about it," I say.

"Worry about what?" Sam demands.

"Nothing," CJ and I say together.

"What are you talking about?" Sam asks.

"I'm just planning how best to use my good karma."

"Seriously?" Sam asks.

"Yes," I answer.  And I'm not even lying.

The conversation shifts, and I spend the rest of the ride mentally rehearsing my phone call-cum-verbal victory dance.  CJ spends the remainder of the trip staring at me with a disapproving frown.

I try to look innocent.

I must fail, because CJ sticks to me like a burr on the way into the Newseum.  I can't very well call Donna and tell her I know she's got a bad case of Lyman Fever with CJ glowering at me.

Fine, I think.  I'll just call her after the speech.

***

I've been home for a couple of hours.  I've changed out of my business suit, and I'm in the middle of nuking some Lean Cuisine when the phone rings.

I knew it.

"No, Joshua," I say as I answer the phone.

"You couldn't say hello like a normal person?" he asks.

"What do you want?  What unreasonable thing do you expect from me now?" I ask.

He laughs, and I can picture that mysterious smile on his face.  "Nothing.  I'm just calling to see how you're enjoying your night off."

"You're calling in the middle of the night -- during the president's thing at the Newseum -- to find out about my evening?"

"Basically.  Although the president's speech is pretty much over.  It's just a matter of getting him out of here before he tries to shake hands with everyone in the building."

"And yet you're calling to annoy me."

"And to ask a question."

"No, Josh."

"You haven't heard the question yet."

I'm intrigued, so I settle on giving him my long-suffering sigh instead of any one of a dozen clever comebacks, and I wait.

"So, Donna," he says, "you still going to be home about an hour from now?"

"Yes, Josh.  I have to go to bed early, you see, so I can beat my workaholic boss into the office tomorrow."

"Well, don't go to bed too early," he says.

"Josh, what is going on?"

"I'm coming over to your place as soon as we get back to the White House."

"Oh God, you're drunk again, aren't you?"

"Not even close.  Look, I've got to go.  Otherwise, I'll be stuck getting a ride on the bus with the reporters, and that just wouldn't be good for anyone."

"Josh--"

"Gotta go.  I'll see you in an hour."

And that's the last thing he says to me.

The very last thing.

***

It's not at all like on TV, getting shot.

I am late leaving the Newseum because I was inside calling Donna.  I am still grinning in anticipation as I start to catch up with my friends.

I'm about 100 yards behind them when I hear the noise.  Even after 17 years in D.C., I never recognize gunfire for what it is.

The sudden panicked screams from the crowd finally clue me in.

No one's ever accused me of having great instincts in emergency situations.  I hear gunfire and screams, and all I can think about is Getting There.  I have no medical training; my presence in the midst of an assassination attempt will do nothing more than provide another target.  None of this matters.

I run full out towards the street.

The gates are bottlenecked with terrified civilians, so I head for the fence, intending, I guess, to scale it.  Instead, I stop.  And stare, utterly horrified by what I learn much later is less than ten seconds of undisguised, naked violence.

I see CJ go down, her body slamming into the pavement.  Sam is right behind her, diving for cover.  I can't tell if either of them is hit.

I think I am screaming, my hands grappling at the fence.

I can't find Leo, can't see Toby.

I'm having a hard time breathing.

The presidential limo squeals away.  At least the president is on his way to safety.

My chest feels strange, like it won't expand all the way.

I wonder if Zoey and Charlie are in the limo, too.

I glance down.  I am bleeding.

I look around for help.  There is no one near me.

There is so much blood.

When my brain processes the fact that I've been shot, I start to feel it.  A slow burn through my chest, increasing in magnitude by the second.

I drop to the ground and crawl behind a nearby cement wall.

It occurs to me that the gunfire has stopped.  There are still screams.

I can't concentrate for too long on any one thing.

The blood -- my blood -- seeping from the bullet hole is burning my hands.

I can't catch my breath.  It feels like I'm drowning.

My leg is folded awkwardly beneath me.

No one knows where I am.  I have to get help.

My head falls back against the rough cement.

I try to call out, but only manage a small sound.  Like a dying animal.

Which is when I realize that I, Joshua Lyman, am going to die.  Not in some long-distant future, but here, on the cold pavement.

By myself.

***

You don't know, until the world comes crashing down around you, how very blessed your life has been.  You can't know, until the one thing that matters most is about to be taken from you, how lucky you were to have it for just a little while.

Not even three years.

Even in that first instant, when you hear the words "shots have been fired at President Bartlet and members of his staff," it doesn't register.  You sit there for a second, and you try to remember who was there.  Leo, of course.  And CJ.  Toby and Sam.  Charlie.  Someone told me Zoey was going.

I am paralyzed for a moment.  These are people I care about.  Then I remember the procedure.

Everything connected with the White House has an order, a protocol.  Things must be done just so.  Before President Bartlet even took office, we were drilled on the procedure regarding assassination attempts.  It is supposed to be second nature to us.  I would have sworn it was.  Yet five minutes easily go by before I remember that I have a place I am supposed to be and things I'm supposed to be doing.

My assigned place at this moment is a very easy one to remember:  I'm supposed to be with Josh, doing whatever he needs me to handle.  I grab my jacket and my car keys and run out the door.

Andy, who lives across the hall, opens his door and asks, "Have you heard?"

"Yes," I answer.  "I have to go.  I have to get to Josh."

"I'm so sorry," he says.  I assume he's referring to President Bartlet, so I nod and hurry to my car.

My only thought is that I have to get to where Josh is.  He's probably screaming orders for me already.  I'm pleased to note that my brain is functioning again, even if my hands are shaking, and I remember which hospital the Secret Service will take the president to.

Of course, I get caught in traffic.  All of DC is caught in traffic tonight.  The entire city has gotten out of bed, left their homes and started the trek to the hospital.  Another time I'd wonder about this universal need to be at the center of events, but right now all I want to do is scream.  I want to jump out of my car and scream at all these people who have come to gawk that these are my friends who are fighting for their lives and they need me.

And I hear myself saying the same word over and over and over:  "Josh, Josh, Josh, Josh, Josh."

So maybe, on some subconscious level, I understand what could be happening.  But my conscious brain -- the small, functioning part of me that isn't chanting his name -- can only process the fact that Josh is going to be so angry that it's taking me this long to get to him.

Finally, I arrive at the hospital, but there is nowhere to park.  I say to hell with it and put the car in the first available, illegal spot I can find.  Let them tow it away.  I have to get inside.  I can't be bothered with worrying about parking spaces now.

But getting inside isn't easy.  Everyone wants inside -- reporters, bystanders, everyone claims a legitimate reason.  The Secret Service has the place barricaded, and I think I'm going to cry in frustration.  And then I realize -- and again I wonder why it's taken me so long -- that I know Secret Service agents.  By name.  I look around until I find a face I recognize, and I go up to him.

"I'm Donna Moss.  I'm Josh Lyman's assistant."  I'm shaking again.

"I know who you are, Ms. Moss," he replies.

"I'm supposed to be inside."

"I'll need to see your I.D.," he says.  And it doesn't strike either of us that there is anything absurd in a man saying he recognizes me and then asking to see my I.D.  This is a national emergency, and that is the procedure.

I'm shaking so badly that it takes me two minutes to find my I.D.  But once I have it, the Secret Service agent waves me in.  "Mr. Lyman's assistant," he announces.  "She's cleared."

Josh, I think, will be even harder to live with when I tell him how invoking his name parted a sea of Secret Service agents.

*

I have never seen a hospital look like this -- so few people except for the Secret Service agents lining the hallways.  I can hear my heels clicking against the tile floors, and it is such an eerie sound.  The one woman at the nurse's station looks at me as though she can't understand how I got there.

"I need to find Josh Lyman," I tell her.  "He's part of President Bartlet's staff.  He's the one--"

"I know who Mr. Lyman is," she says.

"Where is he?"

She looks around, uncertain about how much she can tell me.

"I'm his personal assistant," I explain.  "It's my job to be here."

She hesitates some more, then gives me directions to the waiting room.

CJ's there.  And Toby, Sam and Charlie.  I've walked into the middle of a conversation they're having with someone.  A doctor?

They all look at me as though they don't know what to say.  I ask about the president, and I can't believe how relieved I am when they tell me he's going to be all right.  I didn't realize just how worried I was.  And then I'm babbling.  I'm doing that babbling thing Josh hates.  I'm going on about the Secret Service and how I was shaking and I know I should be quiet, but I can't.  I can't be quiet because if I am I will realize that the person who should be here telling me to be quiet isn't here.

Why isn't he here?

"Donna," Toby says, "Josh was hit."

Even then, it doesn't register.  I don't understand.  "Hit" -- I've heard that word before; I know it means something, but I can't quite remember what.

Why isn't Josh here to explain it to me?

Toby is saying something about Josh being hit in the chest.  I hear the words "collapsed lung" and "artery."  It's beginning to make sense now.  I understand it.

Josh isn't here.

Josh isn't here because he's dying.

*

CJ and Charlie have gone back to the White House.  Toby and Sam are here with me.

"You should take your coat off, Donna," Toby says.  He's moved to the chair next to mine, and he's speaking slowly to me, the way you speak to a child.  I suppose that's because I'm in shock.  "You need to take your coat off now."

I shake my head.  "I'm too cold," I tell him.

Toby and Sam exchange looks.  "I'll find a doctor," Sam says and leaves.

I'm not sure why we need a doctor, unless there's news about Josh.

"He called me," I tell Toby.  "It must have been just before.  He said he had to catch up to the rest of you."

"That's right," Toby says.  "He was behind the rest of us.  We couldn't find him after--"

"After the shooting."

"He wasn't in the group.  There were Secret Service around the rest of us, but Josh was cut off."

I don't know how I figure this out, as difficult as I'm finding it to think.  But one piece of the puzzle has just slipped into place.

"You found him, didn't you, Toby?" I ask.

Toby nods.

"Was he -- how did he look?"

"Frightened," Toby answers.  It strikes me suddenly that this is why I like Toby, because he tells the truth.  Someone else might try to convince me that Josh hadn't known what hit him, that there was no pain.

Toby, however, knows that the only comfort is in finding out what really happened.

"I think--"  Toby hesitates and starts again.  Maybe some truths are too hard even for him.  "I think he believed he was dying."

Josh believing in his own death.  I try to wrap my brain around that concept, but I can't make it work.  If ever a man was convinced of his own invincibility, it is Josh Lyman.  Even if -- well, it's just cruel.  It's cruel to let him think, even for an instant, that he's as vulnerable as any of us.

And he was so happy when I talked to him.  He was happy, and then he went out into the crowd and someone shot him.

"Did they catch the shooters?" I ask.

"Yes," Toby tells me.  "The Secret Service got the men who shot Josh."

"Are they dead?"

"Yes, Donna, they're dead."

"Good," I say.  "I'm glad they're dead.  I hope they suffered."

Toby nods, whether in agreement or just understanding, I'm not sure.

He sits quietly beside me for a very long time.

*

The doctor Sam returns with wants to put me under observation.

"Josh would have a field day with that one," I mutter.

"You're under a great deal of strain, Ms. Moss," the doctor says.  "You should lay down; we can find a bed for you."

"I'm all right," I say.

"Josh will be in surgery for at least ten hours," the doctor says.  "There won't be any news.  Getting some rest will help you cope with... the outcome."

It's the tiniest pause there -- "the outcome."  I know what he really means, and there's a part of me that's angry and wants to shout at him to just say it.  But another part of me -- a suspicious part I didn't know existed -- is afraid to say it.  Afraid to think it.

If I don't say it, it won't happen.

I turn down offers of a bed, of tranquilizers, of food.  I can't eat, and what good is being numb through all this?  How will being numb from tranquilizers help?  Josh is fighting to stay alive; I'd say this is a pretty good time to start getting in touch with my emotions.

As for rest, even if I could, it just seems wrong.  It's a national emergency; there's a procedure; I have a job.  My job is to be by Josh's side.  This is as close as I'm getting, and this is where I'll stay.

Toby went back to the White House, and Sam is the only one with me right now.

"How ya doing?" he asks.

This strikes me as a singularly stupid question, but I know Sam means well.

"Okay," I answer.  Then, because Sam is Josh's best friend and he deserves the truth, I add, "Worried."

Sam nods.  He's quiet for a second, like he's gathering the courage to say something.  Then he tells me, "I've been thinking, and I've decided that you need to tell him."

"There is nothing to tell," I say.

"I'm just saying," Sam goes on, "that it would be wrong if he never heard it.  That's all I'm saying."

This should be comical.  Josh is fighting for his life, and Sam is giving me dating advice.  It should be comical.

"You know what CJ would say," I reply.  "Not to mention Leo.  Or the president."

"I'm just saying," Sam repeats.  "Josh is just clueless enough not to know.  So you should say it.  He should know."

I am so damn tired of not having any secrets from these people.

*

Mrs. Landingham comes by next.  I adore Mrs. Landingham.  I want to be Mrs. Landingham when I'm her age.  Her sons died in Vietnam; her husband passed away five years ago; the Bartlets are the closest thing to family that she has.  Nobody could blame Mrs. Landingham if she just said to hell with everyone and became one of those bitter old women who sits around waiting to die.  But she keeps working; and she has this great sense of humor; and if she ever gives in to self-pity, no one else sees it.

I adore Mrs. Landingham.

"Well," she says as she sits down by me, "isn't this just like Josh?"

I look at her curiously.

"He has to be in the center of it, doesn't he?" she asks.  "The president comes away relatively unharmed, and Josh stays behind to do the really dirty fighting.  Isn't that just typical of Josh?"

I smile.  "It really is," I agree.

"I've noticed," Mrs. Landingham says, "that Josh usually wins those fights."

"Not always."

"Most of the time he wins," Mrs. Landingham says.  She takes my hand.  "I don't think it would be wise to bet against him this time."

If it's possible, I love Mrs. Landingham even more than before.

*

The First Lady has come in and out of here several times.  She seems to have appointed herself as the go-between for me and the doctors.

She continues to tell me that I should rest.  Like the other doctors, she has mentioned tranquilizers.

"Did you take anything?" I ask.  I'm being snippy to the First Lady.  Josh is going to kill me.

"Did I--"

"The president was shot.  The president was in surgery.  Nobody made you take tranquilizers, did they?"

"Donna," she says in what I imagine is her doctor voice, "you're ready to collapse.  You need rest."

"When this is over," I say.  I know I've become completely irrational over this, but I'm afraid to leave.  "What if Josh needs me?  Josh hates when I'm not there when he needs me."

Besides, am I the only one who remembers about the procedure?  Nowhere in all that training did it say, "The deputy chief of staff's personal assistant must rest."

Mrs. Bartlet pulls me into her arms, the way I saw her do with Zoey earlier.  "All right then," she says.  "All right."

It's surprisingly comforting.

*

I'm looking at Josh.

They're still operating -- I'm beginning to think that this operation is going to go on for the rest of my life -- and I'm watching through the window of the operating theatre.  Or whatever they call it.  I'm so tired right now that I can't remember.

It's hard from here to even tell that the body down there is Josh.  What I can tell is this: something essential is missing.  Whatever truly makes him Josh isn't there.

All that energy and ego and humor, all the things I love him for, are missing.  That scares me more than the tubes and the surgical masks and the cuts they've made in his body.  When they put him back together, will he be the same?  Will what happened tonight change him somehow?

Will we all lose him, one way or another?

*

It's over.  Finally.  The surgery is over, and Josh is alive.

This time it's CJ who's holding on to me.  Good thing too, because my legs are going numb again.  CJ must realize this because she calls for Toby, and the two of them guide me to the nearest couch.

The next thing I know, Mrs. Bartlet is checking my pulse.  "This is what happens next," she says in her doctor voice.  I'm willing to bet that even the president doesn't mess with her when she uses her doctor voice.  "You are going to sleep."  Something stings, and I suddenly feel so drowsy.

And happy.  'Cause, you know, Josh is alive.

Besides, I think as I look at CJ and Mrs. Bartlet, I love the White House.  You know why I love the White House?  Because it's filled with all these great women -- I mean, there's CJ and Mrs. Bartlet and Gina Toscano.  And there's Mrs. Landingham.  And Margaret.  There's Bonnie and Ginger and Kathy and Nancy.  And Zoey is much smarter than I was at her age.  Which isn't saying much, but still.  I even love Mandy tonight and, okay, Joey Lucas doesn't completely suck.

I fall asleep in the middle of listing every woman I know who's ever worked in the White House.

***

I don't remember much, to be quite honest.

I hear Donna chattering away beside me, her voice a bit shrill and thin, but I can't gather the strength to respond.

I am on some pretty impressive drugs.  I can barely feel the gnawing pain in my chest.

I feel like I'm skimming along the edges of something dark and painful; and if I make one false move, I'll be plunged into it.  Even though I don't know what it is.

So I don't move.  I lay.  I drift.

I could swear my dad is there, holding my hand.  There is something I can't remember, something that makes his presence impossible, but I can't recall what it is.

I remain adrift.

I sleep.  I think I sleep a lot.

At one point, Leo is there, and it sounds like he's crying.  I attribute this to the Demerol.

There are other visits: fragments of whispered conversations between CJ and Sam, Toby and Charlie.  Even Mrs. Landingham stops by, if I'm not mistaken.

Still, I can't open my eyes.  Not even to make Donna stop crying.

When I finally do wake up, it's dark in my room.  I crack my eyes open, and there is an eerily-lit ring of faces surrounding me.

For a moment, I am sure I have died anyway, that all of the stillness was actually death encroaching.

Then I recognize President Bartlet.

***

I'm going to tell Josh that they gave me much better drugs than they gave him.

I've been awake for a few hours now.  Apparently, I didn't miss much.  Josh drifts in and out of consciousness, they tell me, and he doesn't seem to recognize anyone.

Margaret ran by my apartment and packed a suitcase for me.  I'm making a list of things she'll need to get when I send her to Josh's place tonight.

You know the strange thing about this?  I can't stop crying.  I held myself together during the surgery, and now I'm what Josh would call "a big ball of girlish emotion."

I also talk to him a lot.  I'm babbling again.  I told him about the Secret Service and how I was shaking and what Mrs. Landingham said; and before I know it, the wrong words are coming out of my mouth.

"I love you, Joshua Lyman," I say.  "Against my better judgment, I have fallen completely in love with you.  Of course, you shouldn't take this as any sort of compliment because I think my mother dropped me on my head when I was a small child and as a result I have always had the worst taste in men.  Nothing personal."

I pause for breath and check his face.  Eyes closed, breathing steady.  Thank God, he's unconscious.  So there, Sam, I've told him.  Not my fault he didn't hear a word of it.

I'm never saying it again, I promise.

It's just nice to have said it and gotten it out of the way.

I go back to making up my list.

*

Another hour passes before Josh opens his eyes.  Just looking at him breaks my heart.  I never thought I could compare Josh to a wounded animal, but there it is.  This energetic, brilliant man -- this walking ego I have fallen in love with -- the man who takes over a room when he enters it.  I never would have thought he could look like this -- confused, frightened, weak.  All the fight has gone out of him.  And a Josh who can't fight is just wrong.

Feeling sorry for Josh, however, is not going to do either of us any good.  I lean over and tell him, "The doctors say you shouldn't even try to talk, Joshua.  And, yes, I am getting way too much pleasure out of that idea."

So what does he do?  He proves he's still Josh.  He tries to talk.  "Donnatella?"  He says my name in this whispery voice.  It isn't even as much a whisper as it is a breath with a tiny bit of sound attached at the end.  I'm telling you, the man is making it tough to be upbeat and cheery here.

"I'm right here, Josh," I say.  I can't help it; I brush my hand against his cheek.

"Don't leave," he says in the almost-voice that does not sound like him.

"I wasn't planning on it," I tell him, "and the doctors were really serious about the whole no talking thing.  Even after I warned them about you and your mouth."

That's when the miracle happens:  Josh comes back.  No, I don't mean he regains his voice and jumps out of bed and starts barking orders, although I'm sure he'd like to.  All that happens is that he loses the wounded animal look.  He manages something that looks a little like his usual grin, some of the spark comes back into his eyes, and he just seems like Josh again.  My Josh.

Dammit, I'm crying.  I always suspected that Joshua Lyman would reduce me to tears, but this is getting ridiculous.

Josh reaches out for my hand, and you can tell how much pain that tiny movement causes him.

This is, for us, a strange moment, what with Josh not talking and me turning into the sort of sobbing, hysterical woman I hate.  But, I'm thinking, it is another aspect of us that we're only now discovering -- this whole comforting thing.  Just this slight pressure of Josh's hand on mine is more comforting than anything Toby or Mrs. Landingham has said to me since the shooting.  Besides, I have this conviction -- and I don't know how I know it, but I do -- that this is what he needs right now.  Josh needs me.  No one else.

I'm trying to stop crying and think of something funny and clever to say because, in some ways, this moment is too intimate.  I'm thinking that I might just as well be standing in front of him naked because I'm that vulnerable and even if he is on a lot of painkillers he can hardly be missing the fact that I love him.  Which puts me at a decided disadvantage, and you never want to be at a disadvantage with Josh Lyman.  But I keep thinking that he could have died.  If he'd died, I would never have had this moment -- this moment when I found out something about Josh and I together that I hadn't known before.  And for once, I can't worry about appearances.  For once, I'm just going to be myself, openly in love with Josh.

I bend down and kiss him.  Very gently.  On the forehead.  I swear to God, I think he's crying too.  And this is, beyond a doubt, the most meaningful, the most intimate, the most important and private moment of my life.

So of course this would be the moment when Leo walks into the room.

*

"Donna," Leo says, after looking at us for a minute, "I'd like a word with you in private.  Now."

Josh squeezes my hand tighter; whether he's trying to tell me to stay or to have courage, I'm not sure.  Either way, I have on what Josh calls my determined face when I look down at him and say, "I'm coming right back."

In the hallway, Leo gives me the look he usually gives Josh.  "Would you mind explaining what I saw back there?" he asks.  What he really means, of course, is "I know what I just saw and you'd better have a damn good explanation."  I opt, however, to take him literally.

"I was kissing Josh," I say.

"Is this some part of his therapy that the doctors didn't explain to me?"

"Oh, for the love of God, Leo, I kissed him on the forehead."  This is the kind of day I'm having: first I was snippy to the First Lady and now I'm talking back to Leo.  This entire experience seems to be bringing out my inner Lyman.

"Donna," Leo says -- and amazingly he's decided to be gentle now -- "I know this has all been an ordeal for you, but if you and Josh are thinking--"

And I just keep talking back.  "Leo, I imagine that all Josh is thinking about right now is the amount of pain he's in."

"At the moment," Leo agrees.  "But it looks to me as though you and Josh are getting ready to cross some kind of line, and you know all the reasons that absolutely cannot happen."

"I know.  But he almost died last night, Leo," I say.  "He almost died."

Leo looks sympathetic; he really does.  But he has a point to make, and he's not going to let me off the hook.  "Have you seen CNN?  Have you read the morning papers?  Josh is the headline.  They don't have much information on the shooters or their motives and the president's going to be okay, so the story they're all running with is the deputy chief of staff in intensive care.  That means Josh is going to be big news for the next few weeks.  Everything in his life will come under scrutiny.  And if there's the slightest hint of scandal, believe me, the press will be all over it.  Give me one good reason not to do what I should have done months ago and separate the two of you right now."

"There's nothing going on, Leo," I say.

"You're not in love with Josh?"

"No."  You know, before this career of mine in politics, I couldn't lie half as effectively.  The secret, I've discovered, is not breaking eye contact.

"Josh isn't in love with you?"

"No, he isn't."

"I'm trying to protect you here, Donna," Leo says.  "I'm trying to protect this administration, but I'm trying to protect you and Josh too."

"I know that, Leo," I say, "but we don't need protecting."

He gives me this look that makes me think maybe I'm not as good a liar as I thought.  "We'll have this conversation again once Josh comes back to work," he says.

I let out the breath I was holding while Leo glared at me as I watch him walk away.  Then I go back inside Josh's room and sit by his bed.

Josh looks up at me, doing his best to manage that look he uses when he's trying to get information out of me.  Obviously, he's anxious to find out what Leo and I said to one another.  So I answer him the same way I would at the office.

"Of course, I blamed everything on you," I tell him.

And then another extraordinary thing happens:  Josh laughs.  You can tell the effort hurts him, but he just keeps laughing.

It's the most glorious sound I've ever heard.

***

It's very hard to stay awake.

I keep drifting in and out of reality.  Or at least, that's how it seems.  The drugs aren't helping.  Apparently Donna's near-constant jibes about my delicate system are more accurate than I would like to admit.

Sometimes I'm in the hospital room.  My entire torso throbs, protesting the unauthorized invasion of murderous neo-Nazis and well-meaning doctors.  The drugs do not kill the pain; they merely make me loopy enough to deal with it.

Sometimes I'm in New Hampshire, freezing my ass off because Governor Bartlet insists on campaigning up in Franconia Notch in late October.  My body is wracked with cold; I shiver, and every movement triggers pain in my half-numb extremities.

And sometimes I'm back outside the Newseum.

Those are the worst times.

Donna's voice is fairly constant -- I think she's reading to me from one of those obscure books of hers.  The little I catch is about the absurdity of criminalizing consensual crimes.

I try to voice my agreement but end up moaning.  It's hard to be witty when you're not allowed to open your mouth for anything other than thermometers and tubes.

"Josh?"

I put forth superhuman effort and get my eyes open.

"You're awake," Donna says, unnecessarily.  She has apparently pulled a chair as close to my bedside as she can get it, because she's practically on the mattress with me.

The corner of my mouth twitches.

"And you're making fun of me."  She's smiling down at me.  She's beautiful.

I attempt a frown.

"Not me," she nods.  "My book."

I think I'm grinning.  It's very tiring.

"I'll have you know, Josh, that this is a very well-researched book."

I just about manage a snort.

"Seriously," she says.  "And the author is actually a liberal Christian."

Oh, for the strength to speak.

"Joshua, don't even try it," Donna scolds.  "And besides, that is not an oxymoron."

"Am I interrupting?" CJ asks from somewhere to my left.

Donna leans back, almost out of my range of vision.

CJ appears, much taller than normal.  "How are you feeling?" she asks.

"He's not supposed to talk," Donna says.

I roll my eyes.  They are ignoring me.

"You should go home, Donna," CJ says.

My eyes are drifting shut against my will.  I content myself with listening to them.

"I'm fine."

"Donna, you haven't been home since--"  CJ doesn't finish the sentence.

We all know what she means: since The Shooting.  I shudder, suddenly immersed in the memory.  I can smell the tang of my blood, feel its heat, see my friends falling like bowling pins.

My eyes spring open wide.

Two concerned faces are looking down at me.

"Josh?" Donna places her hand on my arm.

I can't speak.  Even if I could speak, I couldn't put that into words.  I shake my head ever so slightly.

CJ moves away, and I hear furniture moving.  "I'm staying for a while," she says.

She sounds genuinely concerned, but there's something challenging about her tone.  I can't quite figure it out.

Donna looks down at me, with her determined face on.  "Me, too."

I'm drifting off, but I want to offer my opinion.

"Stay."  I'm not sure if I said it or just thought it.

Either way, Donna hears me.  Her hand doesn't leave me.

*

I jerk awake after reliving the shooting for the hundredth time in my dreams.  I'm unable to speak.  My heartbeat is thundering in my head, making me dizzy.

I am still not alone, though.  Donna is here.

In the dark of the hospital room, I can make out the glow of her hair.  She's asleep, and I hear her even, steady breathing.  I concentrate on her, on matching my breaths to hers, and the panic subsides.

Whenever I wake up from the nightmares, she's here.  If she's awake, she'll talk me through it.  But even asleep, her presence soothes me.

In fact, I don't remember her leaving at all.  She may even be wearing the same clothes as when I first saw her in ICU.  In any event, she is rumpled and mussed, and she has never looked more beautiful.

I may be slightly biased, though, because I'm starting to realize just how crazy I am about her.

***

Three days later, Josh is out of intensive care and in a regular hospital room.  Talking is an effort, but this is Josh: he'd rather be in pain than be quiet.  And we suddenly have so much to talk about.

Not that we get to say any of it, however.  We've been tag-teamed.  CJ and Leo have apparently put their heads together and devised a two-part strategy.  Part one calls for me to get back to the West Wing and keep Josh's office running.  I leave the hospital around noon each day and get back by five p.m., farming out everything that isn't absolutely essential.  I do not bring anything back to the hospital for Josh to work on.  This deeply annoys him since he prefers to believe that the federal government would fall apart without him.

Part two of the Cregg-McGarry Plan calls for visitors.  Lots of visitors.  Not during regular visiting hours, but all afternoon, night and morning -- in other words, during the hours I'm there.  As for hospital regulations, hey, we're the White House.  We don't need no stinkin' hospital visiting hour regulations.

As for me, I'm not going home unless and until Josh tells me to.  Between the two of us, we harangued at the nurses until they moved a cot for me into Josh's room.  It's uncomfortable, and I'm sleeping fully clothed because someone is always here; but Josh needs me.  He is, I think, having nightmares about the shooting.  He wakes up through the night quite a lot, and there's always this moment when he calls my name.  He can never get back to sleep until I hold his hand and talk to him.  We can't say anything serious because someone is always listening, so we do our regular inane chatter until the painkillers kick in and he falls asleep again.

Today, however (whether through traffic problems or miscommunication, I have no idea), Toby leaves before Sam arrives.  We are alone for five minutes, and we use our time plotting a counter strategy: call it the Moss-Lyman Defense.

"We need to find their weak link," Josh says.

We look at each other and in unison say, "Sam."

"We guilt him," Josh suggests.

"It could work," I agree.

"It will work," Josh says.  "And if it doesn't, I've got years of stuff I've been collecting on Sam for just such an occasion."

"You collect blackmail material on your best friend?"

"Hey, you never know when it will come in handy."

A sobering thought occurs to me.  "And what have you been collecting on me, Joshua Lyman?"

He leans back against the pillows and starts to put his arms behind his head -- a classic "Josh Lyman, master politician" pose.  The master politician, however, barely manages to lift his arms before his triumphant grin turns into a painful grimace.  He is, however, determined to play out his favorite role, whether his body co-operates or not.  "Cross me and find out, Donnatella Moss," he says.

My first instinct is to offer sympathy over this latest proof of how badly he's been hurt.  But since that's obviously not what he wants, I play along.  "You wouldn't dare.  I'm your assistant.  I know stuff."

"Such as?"

"For one thing, I know exactly who told Danny Concannon about the aide in Hoynes' office who--"

"Okay, you proved your point.  Anybody ever tell you that you fight dirty?"

"Yes, and who did I learn that from?"

He grins again and then pats the bed.  "Come here while we still have a minute."

"Why?"

"Because I'm finally going to do something I've been wanting to do since Christmas."

"It's May, Josh," I say -- and I should note for the record that I'm smiling like the infatuated idiot I am.  "It's a little late in the season to finally be buying me those skis."

"I'm a weak man, Donna.  Don't make me come over there."

And suddenly I'm sitting on the bed, and I am kissing Josh.  As kisses go, this one probably lacks a certain amount of, well, passion that we'd normally have.  I mean, Josh is still pretty weak and I'm too aware that I shouldn't hold him as tightly as I want.  But, nevertheless, it's an amazing kiss.  For just a second, it's very light and tentative.  Then there's this moment when we both seem to realize just how much we want this and what it means, and it grows deeper and more intense.  We're not just kissing here, I think; we're making a promise.  Here and now, because of where we are and because of Josh's injuries, it can't go any farther, but this is our acknowledgement that it will just as soon as possible.

"Hey, I knew there was subtext!" a much too chipper voice exclaims from behind us.  "Didn't I say you guys had subtext?"

Josh stops kissing me and looks up.  "Sam, go away for five minutes."

"Okay," Sam replies, "but CJ's been debriefing us every night, and I don't think this is going to make her happy."

"Once," Josh says, "just once, I am going to kiss Donnatella Moss without being interrupted.  Come back in five minutes."

"Okay," Sam says.

"Sam?" I call out as he turns to leave.  "Better make that ten minutes."

***

Sam claims he stayed gone for twelve-and-a-half minutes.  It feels more like twelve-and-a-half seconds, but whether that's because I'm too weak for strenuous physical activity or because kissing Donnatella Moss relieves me of all good sense, I couldn't say.

Either way, it is over far too quickly.

Sam stands in the doorway, grinning benevolently at us.

Donna looks happily mussed, and I am very reluctant to let go of her so she can settle back in her seat.

"Donna," Sam says.  "Leo wants to see you."

Donna looks startled.

"What, did you go call him?" I ask, suddenly furious.  I use my free hand to lever myself up, ending up in an awkward, half-sitting position.

"No," Sam says, shaking his head.  "He stopped me before I left and wanted me to relay the message."

"Oh," I say.  I realize that all of my muscles are tense, and, consequently, my slowly healing scar is screaming at me.  I collapse back against the pillow, worn out and sweating.  How pathetic is that?

"Josh?" Donna asks, taking my hand.

"I'm fine," I say weakly.  I'm really not.  I feel the sudden urge to hibernate.  To sleep for the better part of a year, until my body is ready for physical activity.

Donna frowns at me.  "We're not doing that again."

I frown back at her.  "I beg to differ."

"I don't mean ever."  She squeezes my hand.  "Just until you can do it without pain."  She blushes at her unwitting pun.

I give her a tired grin.  She looks worried, so I school my expression into one that suggests the Josh Of Old.  The Pre-Shooting Josh.

Sam clears his throat.  "Um, do you--"

"I'm going," Donna says.  "Josh, I'll be back."

I nod at her and fight to maintain my not-in-pain face until she disappears.  Then I groan and grimace and generally act like a person who's been shot and operated on in the very recent past.

Sam is immediately at my bedside.  "Josh, should I call a doctor?"

"No," I grab his arm as he turns to fetch medical assistance.  "Really, Sam, I'm fine.  It just, you know..."

"Hurts?" he asks.

"Yeah," I say.  "That."

It's unnerving how much Sam Seaborn can look like a mother hen when he sets his mind to it.  He nods.  "Can I get you anything?"

"No, but you can do something for me."

"What?"

"Don't come here."

Now he looks wounded.  "You don't want me to visit you?"

"Yes, I do.  Really, Sam."  I hold his gaze until he nods grudgingly.  "But you have to give me some time with Donna."

And Worried Sam makes an appearance.  "Josh, CJ said--"

"I don't care what CJ said," I interrupt.  Pain does not bring out the best in me.  And I'm due for some more painkillers.  "You are going to do this for me."

"I don't know," Sam shakes his head.  "I don't want to get in trouble with CJ."

"You don't want to get in trouble with Donna, either," I point out.  "Or with me."

He deliberates.  "Yeah, but--"

"Sam, don't force my hand."  I swear I can feel each individual stitch pulling at my skin.

He crosses his arms.  "Are you threatening me?"

"Yes," I say.  "I am."  Where is the goddamn nurse?

I am perspiring heavily now, drops of sweat stinging my wounds.

"Josh," Sam says.  "I'm going to get a nurse."

I shake my head, but I can't speak.  I'm clenching my jaw against the pain and my breathing sounds harsh and very loud in my own ears.

Sam returns with a nurse in tow, who assesses me quickly.  He grabs a syringe and adds what I can only pray is my painkiller to the IV above my bed.

I feel the tingle of the drugs in a moment, easing up my arm and through my torso.  The waves of pain begin to subside.  Slowly.

"Better?" the nurse asks with an annoying smile.

I dip my chin in acknowledgment.

He nods at Sam, then leaves.

Sam takes a step closer to the bed.  "Josh," he says, "I'm going to ignore what you said before."

"Sam--"

"No, don't apologize," he says.

I wasn't going to.

Sam pats my arm.  "I'll give you and Donna a couple of hours together each day.  How's that?"

"Good," I say.  For now.

***

I'm going to miss working in the White House.

Let's face it: there is only one reason Leo could want to see me.  He's decided to fire me before Josh and I turn into the Scandal du Jour.

You can't blame him.  He has to look at the larger picture, after all.

Of course, it's always possible that he'll give me a choice:  Josh or my job.

I don't love working at the White House that much.  Especially not after that kiss.

Oh God, if Leo can figure out what Josh and I were doing forty-five minutes ago, I will die of humiliation.

Margaret looks up from her desk and seems confused.  "Why aren't you at the hospital?  They didn't throw Josh out, did they?  What did he do -- threaten to have the doctors audited?"

"No, Josh is still in the hospital.  Sam said Leo wanted to see me."

"He did?  You'd think Leo would tell me these things."

"Margaret?"

"What?"

"Can Leo see me now?  'Cause I need to pick up Josh's mail and get back to the hospital."

After checking with Leo, Margaret tells me to go in.

Leo has on his concerned fatherly face.  Josh says that's when he's most dangerous.

I'm so fired.

"Donna," he says, "this isn't easy for me to say."

Can I still get a good letter of reference?  I mean, besides from Josh, who I'm thinking really doesn't count under the circumstances.

"But," Leo continues, "I feel I owe you an apology."

"An apology?"  I've never been fired before, but I'm pretty sure this is not how it usually works.

"For what I said the other night.  I was out of line.  I know you and Josh have -- well, I'm not sure what you and Josh have.  But I should have realized that you're both too professional to do anything that would jeopardize this administration."

I would very much like the ground to open up and swallow me whole.

I would also like to stop remembering the feel of Josh's lips on my neck.

In principle anyway.

"Uh, well, thank you, Leo."  I am fighting the sudden desire to scream, "I was just making out with my boss on a hospital bed.  I so deserve to be fired!"

"You know, Donna, what you've been doing hasn't gone unnoticed."

It hasn't?  Then why haven't I been fired?

"What I mean," Leo says, "is that with Josh's tendency to fly off the handle, well, we all know you've kept him out of trouble more than a few times."

"Oh, well, you know, he's Josh."  I was an articulate woman once.  Then Josh Lyman kissed me, and look what happened to my brain.

"Anyway," Leo says, "I just wanted you to know that I have complete faith in you."

I murmur some innocuous reply and get of there as quickly as possible.  I'm halfway back to the hospital before I realize what has happened.

Leo guilted me.

He realized that I was our weak link, and he guilted me.

Damn.  Leo's better at this strategy stuff than Josh is.

We're screwed.

***

I guess the painkillers knocked me out for a while.  The last thing I remember is Sam peering down at me, but when I open my eyes, I'm alone in my hospital room.

I'm alone.

I can't believe how quickly I've become accustomed to 24-hour Donnatella Moss.  And it's alarming how much I hate waking up without her.

It occurs to me that I may be...  Well, that I might...

I guess I kind of love her.

Geez.

Now that that's out of the way, I'm a determined man, and waking up without Donna Moss is not something I care do.  The next step is obvious:  I need a strategy to beat Leo and CJ.

It has to be good, too.  Something unimpeachable.  Because I am not about to lose her, either personally or professionally.

Donna arrives, and I am stupidly relieved to see her.  "Donna!"  I'm smiling.

"Josh."  She has her worried face on.  "We're screwed."

"What happened?"  If Leo fired her, I'll kill him.  I'll get out of this hospital bed and kill him myself.

"Leo worked me."

Okay, now I'm confused.  "He worked you?"

"Yes," she nods.  "He's decided I'm the weak link."

I ponder that for a moment.  "Well, you are."

"Joshua!"

"Come on, Donna," I say.  "Leo knows you're susceptible to, you know, emotional stuff.  And he certainly can't get to me."

"Because you're the master politician?"  She sounds kind of angry.

This is not going well.

"No, I just meant--"

"Leo is, too, Josh."

"What?"

"A master politician," she says.  "And he's determined to stop this thing."

"This thing?"

"Yes," she answers, waving her hand in the air between us.  "This thing."

"What's wrong with this thing?" I demand.

"Nothing.  It's other people's perceptions that are the problem."

"Which is why we need a strategy," I say.  I've been thinking--"

"And so has Leo," she interrupts.  "Leo can fight just as dirty as you, Josh."

"We're not going to fight dirty," I say.

Donna looks very skeptical.  "What are you talking about?"

"We take the high road."

"The high road?"

"Yes," I say.  "The moral high ground."

"How are we taking the moral high ground?" she asks.  "I'm your assistant."

"Okay," I shrug.  "So there's a flaw in my otherwise brilliant plan."

"I don't think it's going to work."  Donna looks convinced, and I am scared witless.

"Yes, it is," I say.

She doesn't answer.

I have a flash of inspiration.  "We're going to make it work."

Donna narrows her eyes suspiciously.  "How?"

There's only one solution.  I grin at her.

"We're getting married."

THE END

10.12.00