W.W. – Thursday Morning

"Okay, people, settle down. Here is what we know." Joey Lucas looked calm, professional. She was wearing a dark suit that really contrasted with the white silk of her blouse cuffs, and as she signed, the flashes of white and dark in the dimly lit press gallery were like signal lights between warships at sea. Kenny, in position slightly to the side, spoke with calm and reassurance that matched her crisp movements.

The assembled staff came to uneasy order, in the only room large enough to hold them all conveniently. Some had been crying, some looked angry. All of them had the preternatural brightness that comes from strong emotion too early in the morning. A sort of Brownian motion kept some of the staffers turning over and over near the large urns of coffee up from the White House Mess.

"A bomb went off as the CODEL pulled out of the hotel complex near Gaza, right around 6:30 local time. Earlier reports of a missile or aerial bomb have not been borne out by investigators on the scene."

Joey looked at each of them as this sank in. She needed to make sure the whole executive was sending the same message and telling the same story. She hoped that the President and Leo, down in the Sit Room, would have some idea of what that story exactly was very soon.

"The bomb went off under the front of the second vehicle of three, and threw it backward into the third vehicle. We have three confirmed casualties, including Admiral Fitzwallace and his aide, Commander Peter Mitchell. Also dead is Congressman Matthew Santos, of Texas. In critical condition are Representative Andrea Wyatt, of Maryland, and Donna Moss from the Presidential Council on International NGO Liaison Activities. They are both being airlifted to Ramstein Air Force Base in Germany."

"We need to stress, there have been no signs of coordinated action against other U.S. assets or personnel, and no group has yet claimed responsibility. The Israeli security services are on alert, and IDF forces are currently surrounding the compound of Chairman Farad. The President is in communication with the Israeli government and remains in touch with our people on the ground in Israel."

Joey wiped a drop of sweat from her brow with the back of her sleeve, and then shot a quick glance at Kenney. He nodded, and she continued.

"You all have assignments, and details we hoped would be relevant are in your green binders. Clear any changes with Will Bailey, C.J. or myself. Toby Ziegler," she paused, and shrugged, "Toby is on his way to Germany at the request of the President. We have a lot to do, and C.J. is going to need this room in about 45 seconds. Let's go, people."

As they broke up, she caught the attention of Will Bailey, who was speaking into one phone on his shoulder at the side of the room, while holding his cell in his other hand. She opened her hands, palms up, and broadly mouthed, "JOSH?"

Will shook his head slightly, eyes opaque behind his glasses in the dim light. He shrugged in frustration and went back to his calls. Joey turned to Kenney as they strode out towards the bullpen.

"Where the hell is Lyman?" she signed savagely as they walked.

"I didn't know it was my day to watch him. I left a message for Sam Seaborn," Kenney returned silently. "Maybe he'll reach him."

W.W.

Josh Lyman was asleep, sitting in the middle of the master bedroom, with note cards scattered all around him. He woke up, briefly, long enough to take off his shoes and check the time, around 5 AM. He had to squint to read the time on his watch in the pre-dawn light, as the battery in his cell seemed to have died during the night.

He grabbed another card, and scrawled, "More Cell Batt." There were fliers from a half dozen decorators, paint stores and home improvement superstores fanned out around him, but he was too tired to get up and turn on the ceiling light.

He looked around himself at the house, dark and still in the early morning. It needed work, but it would be a really great place to live, once Donna got back.

He smiled, and slumped back against the wall, and fell asleep, dreaming of new carpet, fresh paint, and Donna.

W.W.

The trauma surgeon stood aside as the ophthalmic surgeon leaned in to look at the patient's wounds first hand. She shook her head, and stepped back.

"You're right," Dr. Ross said, already stepping out of the trauma surgeon's way. "There isn't anything we can do with that. Go ahead and continue with primary wound care, and we'll worry about cosmetic reconstruction once she's better stabilized from the collapsed lung."

The trauma surgeon, Dr. Dodge, went back to work with a shrug.

"That's what we figured, but before we write off anybody's eye, we figured you'd want a peek." He continued with his previous task, removing glass shards from the tissues around what had been the patient's eye. There was a rapidly filling tray covered with small bloody fragments, many still with pieces of flesh or a few long blonde hairs adhering to them.

"We keep getting calls from Washington," Dodge went on conversationally, "so let's see if we can clean this young lady up, shall we?"

They settled in, knowing they had a lot of work to do over the next few hours.

W.W.

"I don't want Dora, I want Big Birt!" There was a girl sitting on Sam's lap, pouting. She was small and dark haired and beautiful, with tiny lips forming a perfect little "O" the angrier he got.

"Samantha, I haven't got Big Bird, I have Dora Explorer. I thought you liked Dora?" He was tired, and stressed, but at least the attention from the toddler on his lap was a distraction from news reports. Josh had not returned his call, either.

"You're mean. I hate you," Samantha said ungraciously, crossing her arms dramatically over her chest as she turned to watch Dora the Explorer on PBS Kids. In a few minutes, she was laughing and singing along as Dora and Boots tried to find their way to Dora's grandmother's house.

When his phone rang, he had to shift Samantha around, and she glared at him again. He smiled his best smile at her, and like most women, she relented. He looked at the caller ID and answered the phone.

"Hey, Ainsley, what are you doing up at this hour?" He was trying to keep his voice light.

"Hey, Sam." She sounded tired, with her accent stretching his name out into "Say-em ."

She went on. "I've been watching the news, and I couldn't get back to sleep. I keep thinking there should be something I should be doing."

"It's not any better here in D.C.," Sam admitted.

"What are you doing this morning? I thought you would still be at the hotel."

"Let me talk!" Samantha said suddenly. Sam sighed as the toddler shouted into the phone. "Hi! Happy Birtday! Hi! Love you bye!" At two and a half, nearly three, she really only had one telephone speech, suitable for all occasions.

"That," Sam said, shifting Samantha around to face the TV again, "Was Samantha Lucas. I was watching her for Joey till her nanny gets here, and she got held up."

There was a long silence. "So, you were there all night, and now you're what? Babysitting?" Sam winced at the coldness of her tone.

"You know what, Ainsley?" His mouth was a thin line but he kept his voice calm for Samantha's sake. "You know what, you're right. I'm babysitting. I'm helping out a friend, a friend you used to like I'll point out, because she's in a jam and needs my help. But you know what? I'm tired of being the bad guy here. I'm tired of being sorry, for something, for something I'm not sorry about."

"Well, Sam," Ainsley sputtered, but he went on, noticing as he did the van pulling up outside with the nanny.

"So you know what? I'm putting this behind me. If you want to really talk about this, I'll be back at the hotel in an hour or so. And if you want to go on making me feel like... like garbage," he went on, biting down on harsher language, "then you can reach me at the hotel when there is not a child present. Good bye, Ainsley."

With that, he hung up the phone and watched the nanny coming up the walk to the door.

He looked again at his phone.

"Josh, where are you?"

W.W.