Page 11 of Keep

Hank pulled out his wallet and handed him a ten. “Get yourself some breakfast. Something hot.”

“You don’t have to do that, Senator.”

“I know I don’t.” Hank put his wallet away. “Have you looked into any of the job placement programs? The VA has a few that do skills training, transitional housing.”

Clyde’s expression was patient. The patience of a man who’d heard this before. “Tried the shelter on 18th again last week. Full up. Always are.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Hank heard himself about to launch into policy—the reflex of a man who’d learned to convert helplessness into procedure—and stopped. “I’m working on it, Clyde. I know that’s not enough.”

“It’s more than most people say.” Clyde looked up at him, squinting against the morning light. “You have a good day, Senator.”

“You too, Clyde.”

Hank walked on. Two blocks later, he was still thinking about Clyde, about the thousands like him, about a nation that would send a man to war and then leave him sitting on concrete outside a CVS.

Then he thought about Chad, and the two thoughts collided in a way that surprised him—vulnerability, people who deserved better than what they’d been given.

You’re not going to fix homelessness because a bartender kissed you. Get a grip.

The Hart Senate Office Building. White marble, American flags, the faint institutional smell of floor polish and consequence. Hank badged through security, took the elevator to the third floor, and walked the familiar corridor to his office.

Cathy was already at her desk, coffee in hand, looking as composed as she always did at seven-thirty in the morning. Early forties, efficient, unflappable—the quiet competence of someone who had long ago decided that her boss’s eccentricities were manageable.

“Good morning, Senator. You’re seven minutes late.”

“Which makes me seven minutes early by any reasonable standard.”

“Your standard is the standard I use.” She handed him a stack of folders. “Briefing materials for the Commerce Committee hearing at nine. Trade bill markup. Your statement’s on top—I revised the second paragraph.”

“What was wrong with the second paragraph?”

“It was four sentences long and said the same thing twice.”

“Ah.” He took the folders. “Thank you, Cath.”

“Coffee’s ready. You have the hearing at nine, lunch with Senator Holloway at twelve—she’s already confirmed twice, which means she wants something—and floor votes at two and four. Relatively light.”

“I appreciate the ‘relatively.’”

He took the folders into his office and shut the door. Modest by Senate standards—a mahogany desk, leather chair, bookshelves lined with policy briefs and the occasional novel he never had time to finish. The window overlooked the Capitol, and the view still felt, on good mornings, like something he’d borrowed rather than earned.

He set the folders down. Pulled out his phone.

Chad’s contact was right there—saved last night as Chad Ellsworth, which had felt presumptuous and thrilling and slightly pathetic, like a teenager writing a crush’s name in a notebook.

Don’t text him again. You texted three hours ago. At one in the morning. Like a normal, well-adjusted adult.

But he opened the thread anyway.

Hey, it’s Hank. I just wanted to make sure you got home safe. I hope that’s all right. See you Thursday.

Home safe. Can’t wait for Thursday.

Me too. Sleep well, Chad.

Three messages. The whole of it. And he’d already read them four times this morning.

He set the phone down. Opened the briefing materials. Read the same sentence three times without absorbing it.