A/N: This chapter (only took a day! Yay!) is very introspective, full of Ned's inner monologues and contemplation . . . quite possibly very boring. Hopefully it's not dull or too wordy. Enjoy!

"Dad?"

Philip McDodd wasn't the kind of man who had a lot of time for anything that wasn't related to the council or the city. However, he glanced down at his son (Mimi, who was hovering behind Ned, was only afforded the quickest of looks) and allowed himself the luxury of a brief, but genuine, smile. "Ned, I don't have much time. What is it?"

Ned was filled with the all-consuming panic that comes from being asked a question under the pressure of brevity. His mind went blank. "I . . . I wanted to ask you something," he stammered.

His father looked confused and a little impatient. "What?" he asked. There was just enough of an edge to his voice to make Ned pale, and his stammering to get worse. His mother slipped into the room and saw the terrorized boy. She opened her mouth to yell before realizing what that would do to Ned. Instead she glared at her husband and raised her eyebrows. Remember what we talked about, she mouthed. Philip sighed and said, "Son? There's no pressure. Feel free to say whatever you'd like."

"It's just that . . . we wanted to see if maybe you'd like to . . . to come . . ."

Mimi saw that he was struggling and stepped in. "Father, we're both in a school production, and we know that you have a lot to do, but if you could take the time to come see us, here is an invitation." She pressed it into his hand before he could say anything and strode out of the room with all the authority an eight-year-old could muster.

Ned stared up at his father. "We'd love it if you could make it," he said weakly, trying to imitate Mimi's flawless authority and failing. He turned and padded out of the room and pressed himself against the closed bedroom door.

"That's one strong girl," Philip said approvingly. "She'd make a great mayor. Did you see that eloquence? That power? And that compassion! Saving that poor boy's ass when he couldn't string two words together!"

"That's no way to talk about your son," his mother said reprovingly.

"Seriously, Carol, why do you bother?" He began shuffling papers and moving around, getting ready for bed. "Ned's a nice enough boy, but he's too nervous to make a good mayor. If only she'd been born a few minutes earlier."

"If you think she's so great" — his mother spat the word — "then why do you treat her like garbage all the time?"

He sounded puzzled. "She's not going to be mayor, is she?"

"Will you tell me the exact point of having eighty-five children — no mean feat, I'd like you to bear in mind — if you only cared about the first one?"

"Two reasons, Carol. One, it's tradition for the mayor to have many children. And second, it's insurance. What if Ned were to die before having a child? Who would carrry on the line but the next oldest sibling? Besides, it's not exactly a silly concept, with his clumsiness."

Ned had heard enough. He pushed off the wall and hurried into his bedroom. When Mimi grinned at him, saying, "Not so bad, huh, big brother? He might show up!" Ned shoved her to the floor and burst into tears.

No matter how much his sister asked, he wouldn't tell her what was wrong.

Ned's father hadn't always been like that. In fact, it would be unfair to say that he was even often like that. Most of the time, Philip McDodd was a loving if busy man who cared for all his children, with Ned as his favorite. Though he'd rarely been cruel to Ned's siblings, like Carol had sometimes believed, there was an almost imperceptible coolness towards them, one that made them uncomfortable.

With Ned, however, there had been nothing but warmth — to his face, at least. Ned's father had been a good man with the best intentions, and though all of his children harbored some resentment for the man, they still retained a good relationship with him. However, moments like the one Ned had listened to outside his parents' door had filled him with a wariness that ran deep and the desperation to please his father. Still, he had years to become the kind of man and mayor his father wanted him to be. There was nothing to worry about. He was just a kid. Why should a kid have to care about mayoral duties?

As he looked down at the thin, waxy body on the hospital bed, the gravity of the situation hit him. Not that his father was dying; that was a concept far too huge to even begin considering in all its magnitude. No, what Ned was realizing was that it didn't matter that he hadn't become the kind of mayor his father had wanted, that the town had wanted.

He was now Mayor Ned McDodd, high-school junior and leader of an entire city.

"He doesn't look so bad," he said in a strangled voice, turning to his mother. She was collapsed in a chair by the hospital bed. It was actually true. The doctors had fixed him up wonderfully once they knew it was too late. "How did it happen?"

Mrs. McDodd sniffled, looking up from her husband's face. "I don't really know," she said. "I was inside, and it was so fast. I think . . . I heard it was a trolley of some sort. It didn't stick around."

Well, of course not, Ned thought. To stay and account for what they'd done would imply that something went wrong, and that just doesn't happen in Whoville, now does it? "Can he talk, or is he . . . ?"

"He has a few hours, the nurse said. He shouldn't be woken up, but I know that he'd want to speak to you."

Ned took a deep breath and looked down at his father. He'd always thought that his dad was so huge, so capable of everything, and it was hard to reconcile that image with this tiny man. He knew that he was stealing this thought from some book or movie — it was probably one of those cliches that gets passed around the world several times over — but it was true. There was something about life that made one seem bigger, somehow. And the absence of life (not quite, Ned forced himself to think, he's not gone yet) shrivels up the body, like a juice box that has had all the liquid sucked out. The box is still a box, but smaller at the same time.

His father was a juice box. And according to his mom, it was his job to suck the last dregs of juice out of him and hope that they were still good. A thought flashed through his mind: Should we really do this? It was followed by a far more terrible one: Do I even want to do this?

"Mom? I don't know if this is a good idea."

She stared at him, her eyes hollow and sunken in her ash-blonde face, and shook her husband's shoulder. "Phil?" she said. "The nurses say you aren't in a coma, so wake up and say goodbye to your son. You can't leave us just yet." Her voice was more tender than Ned had ever heard it, and the sound of it made his throat clog with tears. He took a deep breath to calm himself and waited for his father's eyes to open.

They didn't.

His mother looked at him expectantly, and he took his father's hand. "Listen, Dad," he said, "I'm gonna miss you. And . . . I'll do my best. To be mayor. I . . . I won't let you down."

Philip McDodd's eyes never opened — the nurse said he wouldn't have had the strength for that — but he managed to say, in a voice strained with effort and thick with fluids Ned refused to think about, "Good luck."

Later, Ned would turn to Mimi and say, "Isn't that just like Dad? Practical to the last." Later he'd tell Patrick and Sarah that it was stupid, but that he'd kind of hoped for something a little more affectionate. Later he'd tell Sally that he didn't think his father knew what the words "I love you" meant; he'd always been more interested in getting results, and assumed that love went without saying.

Later he would forgive his father for his practicality, even love him for it. In that moment, however, it was all he could do not to burst into furious, heartbroken tears or slug the corpse in the face. With difficulty, he kissed his mother's cheek, patted his father's cooling hand, and left the hospital room with his back straight and his eyes dry.

"Ned! Come over here and give me a hand, will you?"

At the sound of his father's voice, Ned sprang into action, leaping down from the kitchen table and sprinting through the open door of the garage. Philip was squatting on the floor, staring at one of the wheels of the unicycle he rode to work. "Yes, Dad?"

"I need you to look at this, son," he said, stepping back and letting Ned wriggle into the space between the unicycle and his father's legs. "What do you make of this wheel?"

"It's cracked." That was a bit of an understatement; the wheel was almost split in half.

"Yes. Some idiot left a marble on the road. Almost threw me halfway across the street." Phil knelt down next to his son and looked him straight in the eye. There was no condescension in his voice, no superiority. "We don't have any new wheels, so somehow I have to patch this thing up. What do you think I should do? Frankly, I'm puzzled."

Ned knew, fourteen years old and wilier than his father gave him credit for sometimes, that that wasn't true. His father was never at a loss for anything, so there had to be a learning experience in here somewhere. "I don't know, Dad. I'm no inventor." His father just stared at him, an expression of vague confusion mixed with just a tinge of disappointment. It was an expression that worked very well on the members of the town council, to guilt or pressure them into doing what he wanted. It was a face Ned would have to learn someday. Right now, however, it only served to make him feel angry and embarrassed. "Why would I ever need to learn how to invent some sort of wheel-fixer, anyway? The mayor's office is in walking distance, so what does it matter? Being mayor has nothing to do with inventing!"

His father leaned towards him, not thrown off at all by the tantrum. "That's the thing, Ned. Inventing is exactly like being mayor." He sat back and gestured to the wheel. "Pretend that this isn't a cracked wheel. It's a . . . it's a library in desperate need of repair." There; that got him to listen. Philip continued, quite proud of himself. "It's also a Whoville landmark. But this derelict old building could be torn down and made a . . ." He thought of what Ned would hate more than anything else. "A gymnasium. We don't need another gym, and we really need this library, but with it in such bad condition, it's against the law to keep it up. What do you do?"

"That's easy," Ned said. "Hire some people to fix it up."

"You don't have the money. The council's already over budget and can't afford to give you a dime."

He sighed. This wasn't as easy and fun as he'd thought. For the first time he questioned his ability to handle this job. "Well, can I start some sort of fundraiser? Sell baked goods or something?"

Philip smiled, though it was brief. It was obvious that he'd expected his son to come to this conclusion. "Sure. Let's say you scraped up enough money to buy some supplies, but no labor."

"Are people in Whoville really that cheap?"

"They're not cheap, son. But there's only so much interest in this library, and only so much money to go around." He crossed his arms over his chest. "What now?"

"I don't know! I don't know how to fix anything!"

"Come on. What are you good at that no one in this family can match? You have to think about what you can do and how you can use it. What's your strength?"

"I . . . I can read," he said, thinking Fat lot of good that'll do. His father didn't reply, looking at him expectantly. Then it hit him. "I could read up on basic construction," he offered. It took all of his energy not to turn that statement into a question.

Philip beamed. His verbal praise, however, was scant. "Not bad. And?"

"Could I get a few volunteers? And maybe ask my family to help?"

"A brilliant idea. Children are free labor — that's why mayors have so many." He winked, and though Ned knew that his father was mostly joking, he was still a little uneasy. "See? Being Mayor is like being an inventor or a mechanic. You have to make sure the entire town is running the way it should, and come up with creative ways to solve problems. It's not all smiling for the camera and riding the giant meatball." He stood, cracking his back. "Now, what about this wheel?"

Ned smiled, scrambling to his feet. "I'll run to the library."

"So you're gonna be mayor, huh?"

"I guess so." Ned leaned back against Sally, running his fingers through the fine, soft fur on the skirt of her black dress. "It's all happening so fast. You know I get inaugurated in twenty minutes? Well, make my acceptance speech-slash-eulogy. Apparently all the niceties are smoothed over with a few signed documents." And now he was babbling.

"I know, Ned," she said, and kissed his cheek. "I'll be there for you, you know. And not just today. I'll take care of your siblings and stuff for you." She squeezed him tight around the waist. "Besides, my mom was bugging me to get a job after school. Maybe I can help you out. Be a secretary or something."

"Thank you, Sal. But you have to let go or I'm going to throw up."

She did, brushing his shaggy brown hair out of his face. "You'll be okay, Ned," she said, smiling at him.

Her smile, so sympathetic and warm, made him feel a little like crying again, so he looked away. "We should help the others get ready," he said, gesturing to his bedroom door, through which he could hear sobs intermingled with the customary shrieks and giggles of children getting ready. Not all of them were old enough to understand exactly what was going on, but everyone felt the mood — melancholy and terrified.

They're scared for me, Ned realized. Because I'm too young to be mayor.

The door flew open and Carol stuck her head in. "Ned, we have to go." Her eyes were red and puffy, but otherwise she looked far more put-together than he felt.

Sally adjusted his tie, brushed at his hair again, and kissed him. "I'll be right there," she whispered. "I love you." He tried to say he loved her, too, but the words got caught in his throat. She understood, though, and squeezed his hand. "Good luck."

As stipulated by tradition, the mayoral inauguration doubled as a funeral, an event almost all of Whoville attended. The ceremony itself wasn't very exciting, with a man warbling about what an excellent man Philip McDodd had been, how much everyone was going to miss him, and how the town was indebted to him. Ned let his mind wander, staring at the purple-and-orange casket (painted in his father's fur colors; again, tradition won over common sense) and the large picture next to it. It was their entire family squeezed into the football bleachers at the high school. Philip had his arm around Carol's waist and was beaming with a football helmet under his arm. It had been taken only a year ago, at their annual game.

"It's the McDodd Family Fall Football Extravaganza! What's not to love about it?"

"Phil, not all the kids enjoy football."

He looked around their colossal breakfast table. "Really? They don't?"

Everyone had jumped in at that point, clamoring that yes, they really did like football, that they were excited to go on the outing, that they would get ready right now if he wanted. Ned was one of the loudest voices, even though everyone in the family knew that he hated all sports. However, it was one of the rare occasions where his father didn't think about work for the whole day, and no one wanted to miss out on that. Besides, years of mayoral duty had taught Philip how to be compassionate and fair to everyone, and he made sure that even those too young or not eager to play still had fun. And afterwards they all had ice cream.

Ned would withstand hours of football torture to spend time with his dad, and he knew all his siblings felt the same.

Carol sighed, throwing her dishtowel into the sink. "Fine," she said, exasperated. She hated football more than anyone else in the family. "I have a headache, so I'll stay here."

"No, honey! You have to come! We'll pick up some aspirin and tea, how about? You can be the ref! Just please say you'll come!" Mr. McDodd's wheedling and good-natured ribbing finally won Carol over, as all the children had known it would. That was the mark of a good mayor, Ned knew. He could make anyone feel wanted, and as such get them to do whatever he needed them to. It was manipulative, but lovingly so.

Ned glanced at his mother, who was slumped in one of those folding-chairs with her face buried in her hands. He could never be his father. What was the point in trying?

"Ned," Sally hissed, elbowing him in the side, "you have to get up there and make your speech!"

"Oh. Okay." Using her shoulder to steady him, he stood and climbed up the steep, narrow steps to the podium. All of Whoville was spread out in front of him, a sea of multicolored heads over black bodes. He took a deep breath, suddenly having no idea what to say. This was the first time he'd speak in front of both Whoville and the town council; he had to impress them.

Sally was sitting between Mimi and Halsey, his oldest sisters. The three of them had their fingers laced together so that they formed a small human chain. On Mimi's other side was his mother, who hadn't looked up from her cupped hands yet, even to see her own son become mayor. He swallowed his disappointment and anger, glancing instead at Mrs. O'Malley, who was behind Sally with the rest of the family. She smiled and mouthed, Good luck, kiddo and flashed him a thumbs-up.

"Good people of Whoville, we have just experienced a very tra —" He swallowed and squeezed his eyes shut. "A very tragic loss in Philip McDodd, my father. He was extremely capable and very loving. He has left behind a city that is better for him having been in it, and worse now that he is gone." His littlest siblings were getting antsy, and he wished that his mother would do something to keep them from whispering amongst themselves. She still hadn't looked up, however, and the task fell to Mimi and Halsey. He turned his eyes away from his siblings and towards the people of Whoville, and realized something terrifying: They were exactly like his little brothers and sisters.

Mayor Philip McDodd's primary job was to stop the squalling, quarreling children of their city — keep them entertained, keep them quiet, make sure they were all fed, bathed and put to bed each and every day. And now that was Ned's job.

In a bizarre way, he was now the father of a thousand-something people, many of whom were older than him.

"Mayor McDodd?" one of the councilmen asked, his voice sympathetic with undertones of impatience. Ned realized that he'd been silent for almost twenty seconds. Normally this would have mortified him, brought him close to tears, even, but compared to the events of the last few days a little humiliation was nothing. Besides, he had a much greater realization with which to focus on.

"I'm not sure I can do this."

The councilman nodded. "It is quite a trying experience, sir. We understand."

Ned shook his head, feeling like his soul had come untethered and was floating around his body, getting in the way of his thoughts. "No, I don't know if I can be your mayor," he said, addressing the people of Whoville at large.

There was silence. No one ever said that they couldn't be mayor. "Ned, you have to act confident at all times, but especially in your inauguration speech. It doesn't matter if you're a quivering bunch of fear inside, as long as it stays inside. People need confident leaders. It's hard, but I did it, and your grandmother before me." Philip smiled, hinting that he had once been as frightened as Ned was without admitting as much. Another clever trick. "Just pretend that you have it all under control. Go in with a lot of bluster and bravado and they'll follow you to the ends of the earth. And that's the way it has to be when you're mayor, so act like the kind of leader they need you to be."

"I promise to do my best, however, and I promise to learn. I can't guarantee that I'll be a good mayor, but . . ." But what? He'd told the truth, and he honestly didn't have a "but" to follow that up with. Sally's hands were over her mouth and her eyes were wide; she had listened to many of Phil's mayoral speeches, and she knew how huge a mistake this was. Even his mother had taken her head out of her hands, and for that alone he was glad. For her, and Sally, and all of Whoville, he had to come up with a "but," even if it was pure fabrication. "I can guarantee that I will be the most hardworking mayor that Whoville has ever seen. Thank you." He climbed down from the stage to stunned silence and slipped out of the room without anyone's objections.

When he made it into the lobby, he slumped against the nearest wall and slid down it with his hands over his face. He heard the soft footsteps but didn't look up. Sally sat down next to him, putting her arms around his waist and resting her head on his shoulder.

"That was quite the start." Ned hadn't expected anyone else to escape the ceremony with Sally, and jerked his head out of his hands. Patrick and Sarah were standing above him, and Mimi was hovering a few feet away. Patrick flopped down in front of him, mimicking the voice of a television-show host. "So you've terrified the citizens of Whoville into believing that they are being led into the apocalypse by an awkward little kid. What are you gonna do next, Mr. Mayor?"

"Patrick!" Sarah scolded, pinching his arm.

Ned surprised them all. "Well, Pat," he said, adopting the same hammy voice, "I plan on leading the good citizens of Whoville into the apocalypse. Also, playing some board games."

The girls were staring at the two of them like they'd both gone insane. Patrick just laughed and punched Ned's arm. "Wanna get out of here?" he asked, allowing just a hint of sympathy enter his voice.

"You have no idea." Patrick hauled Ned to his feet, forcing Sally to let go of Ned's torso. She settled for holding his hand, squeezing it every few minutes for comfort. Patrick and Sarah began quibbling over where exactly they should go. When Mimi meekly offered heading over to the high school and getting ice cream (it was almost autumn, after all), everyone agreed after shooting tentative looks at Ned — the McDodd Family Fall Football Extravaganza was well-known around Whoville.

"You okay, Mister Mayor?" Patrick asked, pronouncing it Meestah May-ar.

"What the heck kind of accent was that?" Sarah demanded. An argument seemed about to erupt again before Mimi jerked her head in her brother's direction.

"I'm fine," he said. "Thanks, guys." His throat was getting tight again, and he wondered if he was about to cry for the millionth time in the past three days. "I really needed to . . . to . . ."

"Thanks nothing," Sarah said, rolling her eyes at him. "You're paying." As she and Patrick immediately burst into furious and amusing debate over whether the dogs across the street were fighting or mating, Mimi slipped her hand into Ned's free one, smiling up at him. "You'll be fine, big brother," she whispered. "I wouldn't let you set foot in that office if you weren't."

He nodded, training his gaze to the sun, which was high and hot in the sky now.

"What are you thinking?" Sally asked. She had meant for her voice to be low, but everyone heard and turned around.

"I was thinking . . ." He smiled. "With you guys making sure I'm okay, I'll either be the best mayor in the history of the world . . . or I'll destroy Whoville."

There was a beat of silence as they all stared at each other. "I vote for the first one," Sally said.

Ned kissed the tip of her nose, provoking a loud chorus of "Ewwww"s from the assembled party. "Me too."