Sam finished the last line of the speech and hit 'save' before he could delete the whole thing and start over again. After three days of fruitless arguing and rejected drafts, he had finally written the lifeless prose Toby insisted was necessary to drive the points home. If good oratory brought people to their feet, he was reasonably sure that this would send those unlucky enough to hear it into comas. He shook his head in disgust over both the speech and the simple fact that he had given up trying to persuade Toby that he could write something better.

"Not everything is an Inaugural or a State of the Union. Can't you get that through your head?" Toby had shouted after reading the fourth draft.

"Maybe we should act like it is!" he had returned.

But on Wednesday, Sam realized he no longer had any fight left and had quietly surrendered. That would have scared him a month ago, horrified him six months before that, but now? He was tired and discouraged in a way he had never thought possible. Even in those last awful weeks at Gage Whitney, he had managed to keep a modicum of defiance alive. Now he did not know what he was battling for or against, who his allies were, or what his place in all this was.

He had not slept well in days, and he had spent the previous night pacing as he turned things over in his mind. First there was Toby. Eight weeks ago they had had the same differences of opinions, but now they exploded into full-blown arguments without much provocation. Coupled with that was Toby's new policy of sitting in on any meeting Sam chaired. He might not stay for the whole thing, but the meaning was clear to Sam, at least. He was keeping an eye on what his deputy was saying and doing. For his part, Josh cavalierly dismissed any opinion Sam expressed, regardless of the audience, and effectively shut down every initiative and compromise Sam suggested. Leo openly backed Josh at every turn, and Sam was certain he was behind Toby's sudden interest in Sam's daily schedule. He could not remember the last time he had been sent to the Hill as anything more than support staff for Josh or Toby.

Then there was President Bartlet himself. Sam had said it himself on more than one occasion -- the President seldom, if ever, listens to my recommendations. They had not spoken at length for months, and the President no longer asked him his opinions. Sam had tried repeatedly over the last week to see him, but each time Mrs. Landingham had gently informed him the President did not have a free moment and would not for the foreseeable future. Sam knew he did not have Josh's political acumen nor Toby's shrewd perceptions, but he had spent hours familiarizing himself with issues no one else bothered with. His age and his years away from politics might have been liabilities a year ago, but he had worked to overcome them. When had it become impossible to have his voice heard? What exactly had he done to merit this treatment?

At half past three, Sam had started writing. Even now, his stomach clenched as he opened his briefcase. He drew out three letters and laid them on his desk. The President, Leo and Toby. One for each. Pulling the pen from its holder, he signed and dated them. When he was finished, he took a breath and pressed his shaking hands flat against the desk. It was done -- he­ was done.

Sending the speech to print, he placed each letter in an envelope, noting distantly that Cathy had replenished the supply in his drawer. He picked up the stack of notes on upcoming speeches and projects he had assembled and took them into Toby's darkened office. Putting the folders in the center of the blotter, he placed the envelope on top where Toby would find it when he came in.

Collecting the speech from the printer, he placed it with the envelope in one of the blue folders the President preferred. Taking that and the letter for Leo, he walked through the empty corridors to the Oval. To his surprise, Mrs. Landingham was there, putting on her coat.

Sam held out the folder. "For the President."

"He just left for the Residence, dear. If you hurry, you can catch him."

"Th-there's no reason to bother him tonight. He's expecting the speech tomorrow morning."

She nodded and took the folder from his hand. "I'll make sure he sees it first thing." Putting it on her desk, she looked at him and he almost cringed at the sharp intelligence in her eyes. "Is everything all right, Sam?"

"It's been a long week," he hedged.

"Thank heaven tomorrow is Friday -- not that it means much around here."

Sam backed toward the doorway. "You'll make sure the President gets that?"

"First thing."

"Thank you."

"Good night," she called as he headed to Leo's office.

Margaret's office was dark, and no light showed under Leo's door when Sam slipped in. He added the last envelope to the basket Margaret had trained them all to use. With a quiet sigh, he headed back to his own office. It was done; there was no turning back now.