Page 102 of Keep

“Fuzzy,” Owen confirmed, satisfied.

“Still fuzzy.” Hank kissed the top of his head. Owen smelled like baby shampoo. “You should be sleeping.”

“No,” Owen said firmly. The full extent of his argument.

“Fair enough.”

Lowell leaned in. “I’ll take him to the car in a bit. He’s got maybe twenty minutes left before total collapse.” He glanced at the screens. “How’s it looking?”

“Ask me in an hour,” Hank said, echoing Patricia without meaning to.

“That good, huh?” Lowell’s mouth twitched—the dry, understated amusement of a man who’d married into this circus and made peace with it. He took Owen back, and the toddler went without protest, already losing the fight against his own eyelids.

By ten o’clock, the room had thickened. More volunteers, more supporters, a knot of reporters in a cordoned area near the door. The televisions showed Georgia’s map filling in county by county, red and blue patches spreading like weather patterns Hank couldn’t control and couldn’t stop reading.

Cherokee County. Held it—down two from last time, but held. Forsyth. Up a point. Home field.

His phone buzzed.

Patricia materialized at his elbow. She moved through crowds the way she moved through everything—no visible effort, no wasted motion, suddenly just there.

“Cobb just came in,” she said, checking her tablet with the expression of a woman reading a grocery list. “You took it by four.”

Hank blinked. “Cobb went blue last presidential cycle.”

“It did.” Patricia scrolled. Her face gave nothing away. Twenty years of Georgia races had trained every tell out of her. “Democrats are crossing over. We’re seeing it in Gwinnett too—not enough to call, but the early numbers are running ten points ahead of where you should be.”

“Because of⁠—”

“Because of everything.” Patricia looked at him. Not warm, exactly—Patricia didn’t do warm—but something in the vicinity. “You gave them a reason to cross, Hank. Some of them took it.”

She moved on. That was Patricia—information delivered, interpretation minimal, onward.

Chad appeared with fresh coffee. “I thought you might need this.”

“I might need something stronger.”

“You’ve got a speech to give. Coffee.” Chad handed him the cup. “What did Patricia say?”

“Democrats are crossing over in the suburbs. Cobb, maybe Gwinnett.” Hank took a sip, grateful for the warmth. “People who’ve never voted Republican in their lives.”

“Because of you.”

“Because of—” Hank made a vague gesture that encompassed the photograph, the punch, the coming out, the whole spectacular mess of the past month. “All of it. The whole circus.”

“It’s not a circus.” Chad’s voice was quiet, but the edge was there—the sharpness that meant he was being serious. “It’s you being honest. People can tell the difference.”

Hank looked at him. In the fluorescent light of a community center in Forsyth County, Georgia, Chad looked exactly like what he was—a twenty-three-year-old art student who had no business being at a Republican watch party, and who was here anyway, because Hank mattered more than comfort.

“Thank you,” Hank said. “For being here.”

“Where else would I be?”

“Literally anywhere more comfortable.”

“Probably.” Chad bumped his shoulder. “Eat your cornbread.”

The next hour was the longest of Hank’s life.