Vengeance Is Not Jewish
Vengeance Is Not Jewish

Jane Harper

RATING: PG for very few naughty words and lots of bloody linen

SYNOPSIS: A chaplain helps some of the President's staff deal with the aftermath of the shooting. NOTE: This was written before the airing of "In The Shadow of Two Gunmen" and differs from it in some details. It has been minimally re-edited to conform with some of the jargon from the show, but the story points have been left as they were. What you see here is mostly speculation before the fact.
ARCHIVE: Sure.
DISCLAIMER: All these folks except Sarah belong to the Evil Genius A. Ron Sorkin and his corporate partners. Although Sarah bribed me to put her in this story, no other money changed hands here, and I only do this 'cuz I love TWW, so don't sue me, OK?

Somewhere in the far distance there was an irritating beeping sound…

Sarah woke up and rolled over to look at the clock. "You wanted to do this, remember," she muttered to herself as she flailed at the call-room desk reaching for her pager. She pulled herself up to a sitting position and leaned on the desk to transfer to her wheelchair. Then she rolled over to the phone, checked the extension number on the pager screen, and called the Emergency Department.

"Chaplain on call," she said to the answering voice.

"That you Sarah?"

"Yeah, who's this?"

"Margie. We've got a … situation. There's been a shooting."

"Yeah well, so what else is new. Welcome to the District Knife & Gun Club." A chaplain shouldn't be a cynic, she thought.

Sarah could hear Margie smile. "You can take the nurse outta the ICU, but you can't take the ICU outta the nurse." She paused and Sarah could hear some papers rattling. "Seriously, we need you down here. We're blue."

"Oh great, another drill. OK. I'll be down as soon as I can dress for success." They both laughed as Sarah hung up. She leaned forward to don her jacket, pressed the Velcro tabs of her yarmulke down on her hair, and wheeled out of the on-call room.

When the elevator doors opened into the Emergency Department, chaos had descended. A much larger crowd than usual was milling around, and the newcomers didn't look like the usual denizens of a weeknight DC Emergency Department. They were much too well dressed. There were also many more DCPD than usual. Sarah saw an officer she knew from other late nights on call, and pulled on his sleeve. "Steven?"

The young blond police officer looked down at Sarah and smiled, briefly, then started to walk away. "Gotta go – "

"Wait!" She started to follow him. "What in the world is going on?"

"Haven't you heard?" her friend responded. "This is no drill. The President's been shot." He hurried away.

Ribbono shel olam! she thought, calling on the Master of the Universe. Well, that explains the Twelve Tribes having descended on the ER. She turned to head for the nurses' station, and was stopped by a young woman in a wrinkled dark suit. She inspected Sarah's hospital ID, stuck a yellow map pin in Sarah's lapel, and waved her on.

"Sarah! Over here!" Margie's voice carried across the waiting room, strangely empty for once.

"This isn't a drill?" Sarah said as she skidded to a stop. "What can I do to help?"

A loud voice came from the corridor. "What do you mean I can't go in there? Do you know who I am?"

Margie looked down at Sarah and jerked her thumb in the direction of the voice. "That's what you can do to help. He works at the White House, so I can't give him the usual Margie treatment."

Sarah smiled, recalling the night a combative young shooting victim had called Margie an "ugly fat pig honky bitch"; her response was, "Who sez I'm fat??" Giving Margie's hand a quick squeeze, Sarah turned and rolled toward the source of the ruckus.

A fortyish, rumpled, balding, bearded man had one of the technicians backed into a corner. "I'm gonna find out what's going on in there, with your help or without it!" He spun on his heel and headed for the treatment room door.

Sarah blocked his way, hoping he wouldn't trample a woman in a wheelchair. "Can I help you?" she asked in her sweetest voice.

"Yeah, you can get out of my way." He was frowning so hard his eyebrows practically met over the bridge of his nose.

"I'm sorry, sir, you can't go in there."

"That's what he tried to tell me, but I'm going anyway."

"You're concerned about the victim?" Sarah asked, trying to distract him.

"I'm concerned about my friend," he responded. Then he sighed, deeply, and all the energy seemed to drain out of his face. He looked down at the floor, then over to Sarah again. She thought she saw tears beginning to well up in his eyes, but he turned away so fast she couldn't be sure.

"Would you like me to find out what's happening?" Sarah asked him. "You could wait in the family room over there." She pointed toward an anteroom, which had a burly young black police officer standing by the door. "Or, maybe not. Let's find you somewhere to sit down."

He smiled; that is, one corner of his mouth twitched upward. "I can wait in the … what did you call it? Family room?"

"But it seems to be off limits for the moment –"

"That's OK," he said, much calmer now. "The officer is with me." Turning back toward the anteroom, he stopped and pointed at Sarah. As he passed the policeman, he said "When she comes back this way, let her in."

"Yes sir," the officer replied.

Sarah wheeled over toward the family room. "Who was that?" she asked the guard.

"That's Mr. Ziegler from the White House."

"Oy," she whispered.

"You can say that again," the guard answered, smiling.

Sarah said a silent prayer of thanks for electric doors as she entered the treatment area. A flurry of frantic activity surrounded Trauma A; Trauma B was full of people, but most of them wore suits rather than scrubs, and the air wasn't nearly as anxious. As one of the suits stepped aside, Sarah saw the President of the United States on the gurney in Trauma B. She gasped, then laughed at herself. When she began to roll toward the Trauma rooms, one of the suits stepped out to block her passage.

"Sorry, you can't be in here."

She unclipped her hospital ID from her lapel and held it up for the suit to see. "Chaplain," she said simply.

"Oh – sorry. The agent outside gave you the wrong pin." He took the yellow map pin out of Sarah's lapel and replaced it with a green one; then he stepped out of the way.

Well, I can see that President Bartlet's doing OK – at least he's talking – but what's up with this other guy? She rolled slowly up toward Trauma A, as an X-ray technician wheeled his unwieldy apparatus out of the room. "What's up, Jenny?" she asked the technician.

"Train wreck," came the answer. "Shot in the chest, no exit, could be a bullet in the mediastinum."

"Who's got the baseball hat?"

"Brewer's the chief on call, but Mac is on his way in from Arlington."

"Good cutters both," Sarah responded as the technician hurried away, parking her portable unit in the corner.

As she got closer, Sarah could see IV bags, pressure bags, and units of blood hanging from the poles in the ceiling like a multicolored forest. There was blood everywhere else, too; on the floor, on people's shoes, on the linens. The regular hissing of a ventilator came from the corner of the room. "Four more of O neg," someone shouted. One of the crowd came jogging out and headed for the small refrigerator at Sarah's left. "Negative belly tap," another voice called. Margie stuck her head in the door and called, "OR's ready!"

The entire entourage moved out of the way, as the gurney came speeding toward the back elevator. Sarah waited until they passed, then wheeled into the nearly-empty cubicle. A single technician was packing up all the paperwork which had accumulated in the room.

"They forgot the flow sheet," Sarah noted as she picked up and folded the large sheet of paper. Glancing down, she noticed that the victim had lost a lot of blood in the field, and had required a lot of intravenous fluid to keep his pressure up. The diagram showed an entrance wound in the left fifth intercostal space, directly over the heart. She checked the name field: Lyman, Joshua, age 39.

Sarah surrendered the chart to the technician who headed for the elevator, and the Operating Room. Just then a group of suits and two figures in scrubs wheeled the President's gurney past the door to Trauma A. Bartlet glanced over his shoulder as they passed. His eyes flickered over the bloody floor and the laundry cart full of bloodstained linen. "Oh God," he muttered, softly.

Sarah rolled slowly toward the President's gurney. "Sir?" she asked. "Mr. Lyman is in surgery."

Bartlet's glance caught the cap on Sarah's head. "They called for a Rabbi?"

"No, sir," she answered, "not specifically. I'm the chaplain on call."

"Will you be here later?" the President asked.

"I'm here until noon tomorrow—" Sarah looked at her watch. "I mean, today, Sir."

"I'll have them call you when I get settled, Rabbi. I have a feeling we'll need God's help with this one."

"I'm at your service, Mr. President."

After Bartlet's entourage left the room, Sarah noticed her hands were shaking. She took a deep breath and headed back toward the family room. The guard waved her inside.

She rolled in to find a room full of people. Three of them started to speak at once; the questions were all the same. "Mr. Lyman is in surgery," Sarah answered.

"And..?" the one named Ziegler said.

"He's hurt very seriously."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Under normal circumstances we only give out details to the family …" Sarah began to wish the floor would open, or someone would burst through the door to rescue her.

A tall woman with a bandaged face leaned forward toward Sarah. "We spend ninety hours a week with him. We are his family."

Sarah heard a walkie-talkie outside, and the guard opened the family room door. "The President is in his suite," he said. "Mr. McGarry wants you all to come up there."

After she cleared the doorway, Sarah turned toward the lobby. "Oh no," a voice said behind her. "You're coming with us." Someone grabbed the handles and turned her chair toward the elevator. "At the moment, you're the only one who knows anything."

The largely-disheveled group pushed past the suits at the doorway to the Presidential suite. Sarah had never been in the VIP wing; it was so quiet, and people spoke in hushed tones. All except one.

"Who the hell is she?" someone bellowed as they entered.

"She's the chaplain," the woman with the bandage answered.

"Did we call for a chaplain?"

"She saw Josh, Leo," Ziegler said.

A shortish, squarely built 50-something man whirled to face Sarah. "And?" he asked.

"We were about to find out," the woman answered as she settled her long frame onto the sofa.

"They may fire me for this—" Sarah began.

"They won't," the woman interrupted.

"Mr. Lyman is in surgery. He has a bullet in the chest, very close to his heart. It's still there. He lost a lot of blood."

"Was he awake?" the one called Leo asked.

"I don't know," Sarah responded. "I couldn't see him, I'm not as tall as I used to be." She stopped suddenly. Damn. My smart mouth is gonna get me in trouble again.

Ziegler's mouth twisted again into what passed for a smile. "I see that."

"Mr. Lyman has the best thoracic surgeons in the hospital working on him. The surgical team is top-notch. If anyone can save him, they can."

The smile disappeared from Ziegler's face. "Isn't this where you say something about him being in God's hands?"

"Trust in God, a wise man once said, but tie your camel," Sarah answered. "We have the best camel wranglers in the District."

"A Rabbi who quotes Muhammad?"

Sarah looked up to see President Bartlet standing in the doorway to his room, an attractive young black man at his shoulder.

"Toby," he continued, "I don't think this is your average Rabbi."

"No sir," Ziegler answered. "I don't either."

A woman's voice came from the President's room: "Charlie, help me get the President back in bed." As Bartlet sighed and moved slowly back inside, the First Lady strode into the sitting room of the Presidential Suite. She walked up to Sarah and introduced herself: "I'm Abbey Bartlet, Rabbi. Thank you for coming."

"I'm Sarah Cooper, Dr. Bartlet; and I'm not a Rabbi, just a chaplain."

Abbey smiled. "I see." She sat next to Sarah, on an overstuffed chair with pink flowered upholstery. "You said you didn't see Mr. Lyman directly?"

"No ma'am. I doubt if he was awake, though. He was intubated and would probably have bucked the vent if he were."

The First Lady furrowed her brow. "Anything else you heard that you can remember?"

"The belly tap was negative. There was a question about where the bullet wound up, but the films didn't come back before they took him up to OR."

Leo looked at Abbey. "Did you understand that?" Abbey nodded. "Maybe you should go see what's happening."

"I can do that," Sarah responded. "Dr. Bartlet probably wants to stay with the President…"

"With all due respect, Chaplain, I don't think you'd understand the situation as well as she would," Leo replied.

"I was an ICU nurse before—in my former life," Sarah responded.

"It's OK, Leo," Abbey said. "Ms. Cooper will be able to tell us what we want to know."

"Please call me Sarah. I'll be back as soon as I know anything."

As she left the suite, the agent by the door stopped Sarah and added a purple map pin to the collection in her lapel.

Sarah made four or five trips from the Presidential Suite to the Operating Room and back that night. Lyman survived his surgery and was transferred to the surgical ICU just before dawn. One by one, the crowd of West Wing staff left the Presidential suite to go home, shower, and get clean clothes. By the change of shift at seven, only Abbey Bartlet, Leo McGarry, and Toby Ziegler were still in the sitting room. Coffee cups and candy wrappers were scattered around. Leo was muttering at the crossword in the morning New York Times. Abbey was snoring softly on the sofa. Toby got up and headed for the door.

"I'm going down to the ICU," he told the agent.

"May I come along?" Sarah asked.

"Sure," he shrugged. They took the elevator down in silence.

Just as the elevator doors opened, Sarah's pager sounded, and the overhead broadcast "Dr. Mcenany, SICU STAT." Several personnel hurried to Josh's bedside. Sarah stopped Toby from joining them, waiting with him just outside the glass partition. She could see the monitor from where she was; Josh's heart was racing and his blood pressure had fallen dangerously low. "Call the OR," someone called out; "we gotta go back." Sarah could hear the charge nurse on the phone. "Lyman's popped a bleeder," the nurse said; "we're bringing him back down."

Sarah saw Toby's fists clench at his sides. "I don't wanna be saying kaddish today," he said to Sarah.

"Neither do I," she responded, touching him softly on the arm. As the charge nurse walked by, Sarah said softly, "Page me when Lyman gets back, OK?"

The charge nurse shook her head yes.

Toby walked back toward the elevator in silence. Sarah followed at a respectful distance. As the doors opened, he turned to her and asked, "Where's the chapel?"

"I'll show you," she answered.

They sat quietly together in the chapel, Toby slumping in the chair, rubbing his face and chin. After several minutes, Sarah asked softly, "Would you rather be alone?"

"No," Toby said, looking away; "but I wish it weren't so … quiet."

"We could go back up to the Presidential Suite and wait there."

"Too many people. It's the noise I miss, not the noisemakers."

Sarah smiled. "Sometimes it's hard for me to cope with silence. There's nowhere to go to hide from my thoughts."

"Yeah." he responded. "And right now, mine are pretty ugly."

"Angry?"

Toby made no response.

"If that were my friend up there," Sarah said, "I'd be for skinning the guy who shot him."

Ziegler's face was a steely mask. "That's too good for him."

"I hear you," Sarah answered.

Toby spun in his seat to face her. "Do you have any idea how much I hate that phrase? Pure psychobabble crap!"

She made no response, searching his face and waiting; he turned away, sighing audibly. After a few seconds, his pager went off. He pulled a cell-phone out of his coat pocket and turned toward Sarah pointedly. Excusing herself quietly, she left.

Within moments, Sarah's pager also sounded, summoning her to the Presidential suite. Bartlet was returning to the White House, having convinced his physicians that he could recover as well there as elsewhere; having a physician wife clinched the agreement. Dr. Bartlet had cancelled all her engagements for two weeks, concerned for her husband's health beyond the superficial damage to his left hand sustained in the gunfire. The President, the First Lady, and the Chief of Staff all offered their thanks to Sarah, who got to meet the First Daughter in the bargain. Then the group disappeared into the elevator, leaving Sarah in the sitting room.

She was still there when a half-dozen housekeepers entered to give the suite a terminal cleaning. "You'd better get on downstairs, Chaplain," one of them said. "They've locked the elevators already. I'll call it for you with my key."

Exhausted after her night on call, Sarah went home and nestled herself into her huge recliner for a nap. The sound of a ringing phone woke her some hours later.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Sarah. Sorry to bother you at home .."

It was Mickey, another of Sarah's friends from her ICU days. "'T's OK. What's up?"

"There's a hysterical woman here who wants to talk to you."

"Oh goody. How did I get so lucky?"

"She works at the White House – somebody there told her to ask for you. When did you start hobnobbing with the Executive Branch?"

Sarah laughed. "I was on call last night when Bartlet got shot and got to hold some very influential hands… But don't worry, you can say you knew me when."

"Right."

"Mickey, how's Josh Lyman doing? Some folks were keeping quite a vigil over him last night."

"It's still touch-and-go, but he made it through the night. Thank God for small favors. He's the one this blonde is hysterical about. Can you come?"

"OK, but let me try to talk to her first." Hold-muzak came briefly through the receiver, followed by the sound of sobs.

"Ch-chaplain?"

"Yes, I'm Sarah Cooper. I'm coming over as soon as I can, but I thought we might chat a bit now, since it'll be awhile. Who's this?"

"My name is Donna Moss, I'm Mr. Lyman's assistant. Nobody here will tell me anything except that he's—" (her voice turned into a sing-song) "as well as can be expected. I hate that."

"I know what you mean, Donna. It must seem like people say that because they don't want to tell you the truth." She waited a moment to give Donna a chance to respond, but nothing came. "How much did your co-workers tell you?"

"That he got shot in the chest and he's hurt really bad and he might…" She fell silent.

"Every hour he hangs in there makes that less likely," Sarah responded. "I'll be there within half an hour; will you be OK?"

"I guess so."

"OK, Donna. Can I talk to Mickey for a minute again?"

Mickey's voice came back on the line. "Well that worked well, my friend."

"Some days you win, some you lose, some you don't get up to bat. I'll be there ASAP." Sarah hung up the phone, torn between being flattered that the President's staff knew who she was and wishing they'd never heard of her.

When Sarah arrived back at the hospital, it seemed like an instant replay of the night before, only without quite so many suits. The lobby was swarming with DCPD, and when she asked someone what was up she discovered the current wave of suits were FBI.

"What's with the Feds?" she asked her informant.

"They caught the signal man."

"Wait a minute," Sarah responded; "I thought there were two of them."

"There were two shooters. The snipers got 'em. But there was a third guy, a signal man, he's in OR with half a dozen gunshot wounds. Typical Federal … enthusiasm."

Arriving at the SICU, Sarah rolled up to a willowy blonde seated in the corridor next to a strikingly attractive dark-haired man. "Donna?"

"Yes?"

She extended her hand. "Hi, I'm Sarah Cooper." The other woman had a firm grip, and held on a second longer than necessary.

The man with her had loosened his tie and put his jacket down on the chair next to him. He stood and offered his hand as well. "I'm Sam Seaborn, chaplain. Thank you for your assistance to the President and his staff last night."

"No thanks are necessary, Mr. Seaborn."

"Sam," he interrupted.

"Sam," she repeated. "I considered it an honor to be of service. Now, let me go see what I can find out for you about Mr. Lyman."

The doors parted and Sarah rolled into the SICU. Several nurses and technicians were preparing a room across from the nurses' station. Uh-oh, she thought; I guess that means the shooter is coming up here after surgery. She was dismayed but not surprised; with multiple gunshot wounds, his destination would either be the SICU or the morgue. No one was sitting at Lyman's bedside. This was good news, because it meant Josh was stable enough to leave alone for a few minutes. Sarah examined the medical chart at his bedside and saw that the second surgery had stopped the bleeding and that he'd had no more transfusions for the last few hours. He was getting multiple sedatives and pain medications, but had less as the day wore on, so she expected him to awaken soon. All things considered, she said to herself, he's doing really well.

Returning to Donna and Sam, Sarah placed a hand on the young woman's shoulder. "He's doing much better than last night. He hasn't needed any transfusions in a few hours, and all his vital signs are stable. He's still sedated and on a breathing machine, but that's to let him rest." She felt the tension in Donna's shoulders release, as quiet tears streamed down the young woman's face. Sarah offered her a tissue.

"Can we see him?" Seaborn asked.

"I promise I'll be brave," Donna added.

"For just a minute. It will look pretty scary, because he's very pale from losing so much blood, and he has all sorts of tubes going in and coming out everywhere. But I'll stay with you, and you can talk to him and touch him."

Donna stood up and together they entered the ICU. As they approached Josh's bedside, Donna's eyes widened, her lower lip started to quiver, and her breathing accelerated. Don't you dare faint on me, Sarah thought, grabbing a chair and sliding it behind Donna just in case.

The young woman reached out and touched Josh's bare shoulder, then jerked back reflexively. "He's cold!" she complained. "Why is he so cold?"

"I'll get him a warm blanket," Sarah responded. "Here, sit down and talk to him." She gently pushed Donna down into the bedside chair and wheeled off in search of the blanket warmer. Returning with two soft warm white bath blankets, Sarah rolled up to the opposite side of Josh's bed, and the two women spread the warmth over him. Donna gently tucked the blankets up under his chin.

"Can he hear us?" Seaborn asked.

"I'm sure he can," came the response. "It's good for him to hear voices he recognizes; most of the people around him for the last 18 hours have been strangers." The phone began to ring at the nurses' station; a moment later the monitor technician called for Sarah. She rolled over and picked up a phone.

"Sarah Cooper."

"Chaplain, this is Toby Ziegler. How's Josh doing?"

"Much better," Sarah responded. "His vitals are stable, he hasn't needed any blood for 4 or 5 hours, and I expect he'll wake up directly."

"Good. I'm on my way there now."

The line went dead, as a hospital bed and five scrub-clad staff burst through the electric doors and made a beeline for the empty cubicle. A young man lay on the bed attached to a forest of lines and tubes. Sarah sped over to Lyman's bedside and pulled the curtains around him. "Mr. Ziegler called," she told the visitors. "He'll be here shortly. Are you OK for a few minutes? There's a new patient coming in and I just want to check on him."

They both nodded, and Sarah rolled back out into the open center of the unit and over toward the new admission. The chaplain intern still had to restrain herself from an active role at times like this; everything inside her cried out to grab an IV line or stand up and hang units of blood or plug in monitor wires. It had only been five years since she was spending ten or twelve hours a day in a unit like this, watching over critically ill patients and their families. There was no feeling in the world like going home after a long day knowing that someone was still alive who might have died had she not been there. But ICU nurses needed to be able to run… She sighed, pulled back, and turned to one of the residents. "Is the family here?" she asked.

The chubby young surgeon pushed the paper hat back off his forehead and nodded. "They're outside. But I wouldn't be so quick to jump in, Chaplain."

"Why not?" Sarah asked.

The physician said nothing, only pointed to the young victim's arm, where a large black swastika tattoo lay above the IV dressing.

"Thanks for warning me," she called over her shoulder as she rolled through the electric doors—and right into Toby Ziegler.

A DCPD officer sat opposite the doors, and Toby cocked his head in the cop's direction. "What's up?" he asked Sarah.

"There's a patient in custody," she answered. "You might want to wait a few minutes."

The light dawned in Toby's eyes. "Is it—"

Sarah nodded.

She could see his body stiffen as he fought to control himself. "I want to see him."

"Do you think that's a good idea?"

"A good idea? A good idea?? That bastard wanted to kill the President!! I want to see what the little weasel looks like!! That way I'll be sure to be at the rightexecution!!"

From behind Sarah a voice growled. "Don't you talk about my grandson that way!"

She turned to see a stocky gray-haired man approaching from down the hall, and swung herself directly between the two of them as the DCPD officer started to rise. Sarah waved her off, and raised a hand toward Toby. "With all due respect, Mr. Ziegler, this is a hospital. Let's go downstairs until you get a hold on yourself."

Just then Donna came sprinting out of the ICU. "He's awake!" she cried. "Josh is awake!"

The three of them sped back to Lyman's bedside. A nurse was standing at his shoulder with her hand on his arm. Josh was coughing and shaking his head, as buzzes and beeps issued from the ventilator. "Mr. Lyman, it's all right," the nurse insisted. "Let the machine breathe for you."

Donna stepped up to the bedside. "Calm down, for heaven's sake," she said to Josh, tears in her eyes. "You're stressing people out!"

I'm stressing people out?he mouthed silently around the breathing tube. Where the hell am I??

"You're in the intensive care unit at George Washington University Hospital, Mr. Lyman," the nurse answered. "You were shot last night. You're doing fine, but we have the machine breathing for you so your lungs can rest."

Josh's eyes took in the surroundings, stopping when they got to Sam.

"You didn't have to go to these lengths to get a vacation, you know," Seaborn said.

Up yours, Josh mouthed. The nurse chuckled.

"What'd he say?" Toby asked.

"Thank you," Sam answered. "He said thank you."

Sarah bit her lip to keep from laughing.

"Why don't I believe you?" Ziegler responded.

All five of them were smiling: six, if you counted Josh, who was making a valiant attempt. "You're good at reading his lips, Sam," Sarah observed.

"I've had to decode his grunts when he's drunk," Seaborn replied; "this is a very closely related … it's much the same thing."

Lyman's hand reached out to touch Sarah's arm, and he made a questioning face.

"I was the chaplain on call last night, Mr. Lyman. My name is Sarah Cooper."

"She babysat us all night in the Presidential Suite," Toby added.

Josh strained to sit up, then fell back on the bed in defeat. The President-- he mouthed.

"The President is fine, Josh," Seaborn answered. "He was hit in the hand. There's a broken bone but it was set and will be good as new."

Josh's nurse looked up at the visiting crowd. "I'm going to run you all off now. Mr. Lyman needs to rest."

"You may as well call him Josh," Sam said smiling, peeking under Josh's covers. "You've seen him naked."

Sarah laughed, pulling a hospital gown from the bedside drawer and tossing it to Jackie. "I'm going to take these folks down for coffee." She waved at the nurse. "See you later. We'll get out of your hair. Page me if there are any problems with—with the new patient."

"Oh, right," Jackie responded. "I will."

As the three of them entered the elevator, Donna asked, "Who is that young man that just came in?"

"He's the signalman," Toby responded.

Sam stopped in his tracks for a second, his jaw setting square. After they stepped into the elevator, Donna crossed her arms stiffly across her chest and gazed at the ceiling. No one spoke.

The four of them sat in the hospital cafeteria for awhile, making small talk. Donna excused herself, saying she was going back to work, now that she knew Josh was awake and cracking wise. Toby sat in silence, fingering his coffee stirrer.

Sarah was suddenly very tired, and very hungry. "Are you OK?" she asked her two companions. "I'm going to get some food, it's dinnertime."

"No you're not," Sam answered. "Dinner's on us." He got up and seized the handles on the back of Sarah's wheelchair, steering her out of the cafeteria and out of the building. "Do you need to let them know where you're going?" he asked.

"Nope," Sarah responded. "I wasn't even supposed to be here until day after tomorrow. They called me at home when Donna asked for me."

"Why? Aren't there any other chaplains?"

"There are five other chaplains. But when the Assistant to the President's Deputy Chief of Staff asks for someone, you call them at home! Hello??" she stifled a giggle, then started to worry. "I'm sorry," she added. "I shouldn't have said that."

"Forget it," Toby said, chuckling. "You're right." He waved at a cabbie parked at the entrance, then stopped short. "Uh.. how do we do this?" he asked her.

"It's OK, I can stand a little."

He opened the back door of the taxi and Sarah hoisted herself in. "It folds up," she said. "Just pull the handles up. You can put it in the trunk." Chair safely stowed, Toby slid in next to her, and Sam joined the driver in the front.

"30th and M," Toby said to the driver.

"Good choice," Sam responded.

As they settled inside the restaurant terrace Seaborn remarked, "The calamari is great here."

"I'm not much on swarming sea creatures," Sarah responded with a smile.

"Swarming sea creatures?" he questioned.

"Ah," Toby said. "I should have asked if you keep kosher."

"I see," Sam said. "Calimari have to be kosher?"

"Don't worry, they have a cold vegetarian pasta here to die for." She spread the napkin on her lap and took a drink of water.

"Would you like a cocktail?" the waiter asked.

"I have to go back to work, and so do you," Toby responded, looking at Sam. "You?" He looked over at Sarah.

"White wine, please—maybe a Sonoma Valley gewürztraminer? Gan Eden, if you have it."

The waiter scurried away. "He'll be looking until midnight," Sam chuckled. "He probably can't even spell gewürztraminer."

"You can't spell gewürztraminer," Toby responded.

"Well, in my own defense I might note that the President doesn't often refer to gewürztraminer in his speeches."

After dinner they sat awhile, Toby with his coffee and Sarah with her wine. "I'd like to apologize, Mr. Ziegler, for confronting you in the corridor—"

"Call me Toby."

"Even though you haven't seen him naked," Sam chimed in.

Sarah laughed. "OK. I'm still sorry. You had every right to get angry at the men who shot the President and your friend."

"First of all," he answered, "let's get one thing straight: just because Josh Lyman and I spend eighty or so hours a week in the same offices doesn't mean we're bosom buddies."

"Of course not," Sam agreed, talking around a mouthful of chips. He stood, excused himself and headed for the necessary room.

Sure, Sarah thought, but she responded, "OK. Even so, it's very understandable—"

Toby cut her off with a wave of his hand, then hesitated before speaking. "A few months ago," he began, "I was in the Oval Office trying to persuade the President to commute the sentence of a convicted multiple murderer. I explained to him how the Rabbis had made it impossible to commit judicial homicide. I told him I couldn't stomach the idea of the state killing someone in my name." He paused, shifting in his chair and studying the tablecloth carefully. "Now, though, I tell the family of a disturbed young man that I want to be a witness to his execution."

"Well, it's real easy to be principled when the issues are academic and impersonal. I remember when I was a nurse I used to make long speeches about how heroic measures were so misused, about the difference between quantity of life and quality of life. Then, suddenly, it was my mother I was making those decisions about. It was incredibly hard to follow the advice I had so glibly given to others."

"You know what the truth is, though?" he asked.

"What?"

"I'm not sure I can do what you did – force myself to walk the walk and not just talk the talk."

"Don't make me out a hero, Toby," she answered. "I did it because I knew what my mother wanted, and I knew that she was just mean enough to haunt me if I didn't do as she asked."

"Oof," Seaborn offered, returning to the table. "If your mother was anything like Toby's, there would have been years of sleepless nights."

In unison, both men's pagers sounded. Toby pulled out his cell phone and dialed; the conversation consisted of a lot of grunts and a final "OK." "Sam has to go back to work," he said finally, returning the phone to his inside jacket pocket.

"I do?"

"Uh huh."

"Why?"

"You'll find out when you get there."

Just then the food arrived. "Can you make this to go?" Sam asked the waiter.

Two mornings later, Sarah returned to work and sat with her coffee checking the daily hospital census listing admissions, discharges, and transfers. A name caught her eye: Joshua Lyman, SICU3 to Sp5. Even so, she began her day routinely, by a visit to each ICU. Mickey was on duty on the surgical side.

"How's our custody patient?" Sarah asked her.

"Not doing too badly, although it looks as if he may be getting a little wiggy."

"Right on time – two days in this zoo with not much sleep. There is still that rule about not letting patients sleep in the ICU, right?"

"Unfortunately," Mickey answered. "I'll be really happy when we find a way to let them sleep through all the care we have to give them."

Sarah looked up to see an older man – the one who had been in the corridor two nights ago – at the shooter's bedside, and wheeled over to join him. "I wanted to apologize to you for the unpleasant encounter the other night," she began.

"That's all right, Rabbi. You were trying your best." The older man's haggard face was beginning to show the strain of long hours with little sleep. "I'm just glad the young fellow he shot was moved out last night, I was afraid something even worse would happen with both of them in here together."

"Something worse?" Sarah responded.

"I heard a couple of officers talking," he answered. "I guess there have been people threatening my grandson. I don't condone what he did, mind you—" he said softly, blinking back tears, "but how much pain is enough?"

"I can only imagine what your family is going through," she answered.

The grandfather stroked his grandson's arm tenderly. "His grandmother and I didn't know anything about this. We had no idea what he had gotten into—you may not believe this, Rabbi, but his grandmother – my wife – is Jewish."

That means he is, too, Sarah thought. At least by tradition, if not by upbringing or identification.

"Her parents died during the war," he continued. "She actually fainted when she saw his arm; neither one of us knew about … THAT." He pointed to the tattoo on the boy's right arm. "She wasn't raised Jewish—she had been sent to Canada when the war broke out and grew up in a Gentile family. I didn't know when I married her, but it wouldn't have made any difference…" He sighed deeply. "Maybe if she had been more religious, if we had raised his mother more religious, this wouldn't have happened."

"Don't blame yourself," Sarah said. "Kids are under such peer pressure these days; it's so much harder to be a teenager now than it was for either one of us."

A young technician came over to reposition the young man and adjust his many monitor lines and all the tubing running in and out of his body. Sarah knew it was hard to navigate around her chair, and took this as a cue to slide away. Before going, she handed her card to the grieving grandfather.

"Please, call me if you need me, if anyone in your family does."

He shook his head and she squeezed his hand and left. Mickey waved to Sarah as the electric doors closed behind.

When she arrived at Josh's private room, he was fast asleep. Sam was sitting in the overstuffed chair typing away at a laptop computer, having pulled one of the small end tables over in front of his chair. He looked up and waved as she entered the room.

She wheeled over to him as the door closed soundlessly behind her. "I see our patient is out cold," she said quietly. "I hope he's been getting lots of sleep. We don't issue many permits for that in the ICU, y'know."

"Sounds like the White House," Sam responded, tapping away. "We take turns; I'm on the list for Thursday nights."

"Thank God for small favors," Sarah responded.

"Am I alive?" a raspy voice came from the bed.

"I think so," Sam retorted. "You're moving."

"As little as possible. Everything hurts when I move."

Sarah turned around and rolled up next to Josh's hospital bed. "Do you need more pain medication?" she asked.

Lyman shook his head. "Not right now. I'm having too much fun talking to real people." He hesitated, then reached an arm out toward Sarah. "You are real, right? I think I've been hallucinating, because my Grandfather was just here, and he's dead."

"Your Grandfather?" Sam repeated. "He was here?"

Josh picked at his ears. "There's an echo in here."

"That's not uncommon, Josh," Sarah reassured him. "People don't get a lot of sleep in Intensive Care, so when they come out of ICU they tend to have crazy dreams, and lots of them. You're what we call 'REM-deprived' .. under-dreamed."

"Gotta introduce this woman to the President," Sam remarked; "they'd get along great."

"Thanks, Sam, we've already met. Trust me, I wasn't erudite, or even verbose; in fact, I was barely coherent."

"He has that effect on people," Josh croaked. "Until his, oh, tenth or twelfth lecture on incredible minutiae. Then you learn to tune him out."

"Tune him out?" she asked, astonished.

"Well," Sam scrambled to explain, "not when he's saying anything important."

"And you can tell the difference by .. ??"

"The syllable count. Average syllables per word exceeds, oh, maybe 2, 2.5, I'm in the ozone, because I know he's in trivia-land."

Josh laughed, but that dissolved into a cough. "Ow!" he complained.

"I know it hurts," Sarah responded, "but it's good for you. Here." She pulled a pillow from the foot of the bed and pressed it against his chest. "Hug this when you cough. It'll help."

"Thanks, Mom," he responded.

"Well, Josh, I can see you're in good hands," she added. "I'll leave you two alone—"

"No .." he coughed again. "I wanted .."

Sam, heedless, pushed the table away from where he was sitting and rose. "I need more coffee. Either of you two need anything?"

"A new set of lungs?" Josh volunteered.

"They just fixed the ones you have," Seaborn responded. "You haven't even taken them for a decent test drive yet."

After the door closed, Josh turned back to Sarah. "First of all, I wanted to thank you for taking such good care of Sam and Donna. I'm really grateful."

"Don't mention it," Sarah responded. "All part of the room charge."

Lyman smiled. "Even so, thanks. Toby even said you'd been helpful; you must have made a hell of an impression, because usually he only mentions people to complain about them."

"Baloney, Josh. He's a pushover and you know it."

"Shhhh…" he replied. "That's a big secret."

"Right."

"Seriously .. I wanted to talk to you, Chaplain."

"Um-hm, talk away."

"I did have this weird dream about my Grandfather… He was a survivor – Birkenau – and he died awhile back. But I could see him, clear as day. The rest of the dream was crazy, all noises and bright lights, but he was clear as a bell. And he said something to me, but I can't remember what, and I get the feeling it's really important for me to remember." His brow grew deep furrows, and he gazed off into the distance, as if looking at something far away.

"Relax. It'll come back to you when you need it."

"That's what my therapist used to say."

"Then your therapist was very wise." Sarah paused. "Anything I can do for you before I leave?"

"No, I think I'm going to try to go back to sleep. But thanks."

"Don't hesitate to ask your nurse for something for pain the second you need it, OK? Promise me?"

He smiled. "I promise. Come back and see me later? We've not really gotten a chance to talk, and maybe you can help me remember that dream."

She nodded and slipped from the room.

Later on that afternoon her office phone rang.

"Sarah Cooper."

"Hi Sarah, it's Toby Ziegler."

"Hi. Listen, I want to thank you again for dinner the other night—"

"Don't mention it. I need your help again, though."

"OK." Her mind was flipping through possible problems: Josh is doing well, Bartlet is fine, I wonder what he wants me for.

"Josh found out."

Puzzled, Sarah asked, "Found out what?"

"About the fellow who shot him."

"Toby, he knows somebody shot him; 9mm automatic handguns don't go off by themselves."

"I know that! I mean, he knows that they've caught the guy and that he's in your hospital too. If Josh weren't so weak, still, I think the DCPD would be earning their pay protecting that young man."

"That's natural," Sarah responded. "If it were you, wouldn't you want to skin the kid with a spoon? A dull spoon?"

"It's not me, and I still want to skin the kid with a dull spoon."

"I rest my case." She hesitated a beat. "What would you like me to do?"

"Go talk to him?"

"I'm a chaplain, Toby, not a therapist."

"I know that. Problem is, when you're the White House Deputy Chief of Staff, you can't have a therapist. If you do, and the press finds out…"

"I hear you." She stopped short, laughed, and went on. "Uh, let me rephrase that. I hear what you're saying. I mean, I— oh the hell with it, Toby. You know what I'm trying to say."

Sarah heard him laugh for the first time, a real belly laugh, short but explosive. "So will you go talk to him?" he asked.

"Of course I will. Right now."

"Thanks," Toby responded. "I owe you one."

"All part of the—"

"Yeah, yeah, all part of the room charge. 'Bye."

When she arrived at the nurse's station outside Josh's room, the room buzzer was sounding. Two men were arguing inside.

"Dammit, Josh, you've got to eat something!"

"Not this garbage, I don't!"

Sarah rolled into the room in time to see a Dietary Department tray land on the floor. Sam was standing over Josh's bed, hands on his hips, eyes rolling skyward. "Sarah, how much trouble would I be in if I just smack him?"

"You're the lawyer, Sam. I sure couldn't wrestle you to the ground."

"Thanks," Lyman responded. "That's real comforting, Rabbi."

"Listen, Josh," Sarah said softly, coming as close as she could to his bedside. "First, I'm not a Rabbi, just a chaplain. Second, I know you're angry – I support your being angry – but neither Sam here nor the Dietary Department were part of the ambush at the Newseum. It's a whole lot healthier for you if you put your anger where it belongs, at the people who did this to you, instead of the people who are trying to support you."

Josh heaved a long, slow sigh. "I know you're right, Chaplain. It's just that—"

"That the kid who shot you is three floors away, and Sam's right here. It would make me crazy too, to have the shooter so close, yet so far."

"I want to see him," Josh said, clamping his mouth into a horizontal line. "I want to tell him—"

"Tell him what?" Sam asked. "That he's a dirty Nazi bastard? I'm sure that will do both of you a whole lot of good. He'd probably consider it a compliment. Personally, I think it would be much more appropriate for you just to go spit in his eye. You should revel in it. Go dance a hora in front of him and sing Hava Nagila. Tell him that his friends were lousy shots, and that you're one Jew he's not going to get to take out."

Josh reached over to his bedrail and pushed the button to raise his shoulders to a sitting position. "Wow." He stared at Seaborn and slowly cracked a smile. "That's quite a speech coming from a shaygetz!"

Sarah fought to keep from laughing, to paste an appropriate frown on her face. "Josh, that's an awful thing to call your best friend."

"It's OK, Sarah," Sam responded, chuckling. "You should hear what I call him."

"That's it," Josh murmured.

"What's it? I mean, that's what?" Seaborn asked.

"Sarah, that's what my grandfather said in the dream. It makes sense now."

"Sorry Josh, I'm not following," she responded. "I got that you had a dream about your Grandfather. What does that have to do with calling Sam a shaygetz?"

Josh laughed, and it made him cough, so he winced but went on. "Nothing. But what Sam said made me remember what my Grandfather told me in the dream."

"OK," Sarah replied. "What was it?"

"He said that survival is the best revenge." Josh's shoulders squared as his gaze fixed off in the distance. "I hear you, Zayde."

"What's that?" Sam whispered to Sarah.

"Yiddish for Grampa," she replied.

Lyman flushed briefly, then looked sheepishly up and asked, "Uh, can somebody maybe get me another lunch?"