By Lacy

You would think Donna threw the winning touchdown pass for the Superbowl by the way she's greeted when we walk in the door. It should be noted that no one even notices my presence. I just become a fly on the wall. An impeccably dressed fly -- but a fly nonetheless.

Ginger, Bonnie, and Cathy are doing the girlfriend screeching thing that makes my ears feel like they're going to explode. What's up with that? My ears are going to be ringing for the rest of the day.

I slink past them and into my office, tossing my backpack into my desk chair. Donna strides into the office with her hands full of paper a moment later. She's managed to extract herself from her fawning friends.

"What did you have to promise them for your freedom?" I ask.

"My first born child," she responds. "Just kidding. The fax machine was already full with regional reports from the Centers for Disease Control. Do you want me to pull the MMWR?" She takes a moment to corral the papers in her hand into some state of organization.

"Yeah."

"And you need to be in the Oval in two and a half minutes."

"Okay." She passes me the most recent statistics, allowing me to quickly peruse them before I slip them into my ‘priority’ binder. "I'm going to need the MMWR going back through last month. And also, I need you to get me anything you can on bacterial meningitis. Treatments, vaccines, antibiotic agents, and risk groups. You know the drill." Words can’t describe how incredible it feels to have her working at my side again. The last three weeks, though working on a limited schedule, I’d felt deserted and empty. Her attentive presence on the other side of my desk energizes me for the long day to come.

"Index cards?"

I grin widely at her suggestion. "Keep them to a minimum." I squeeze past her out the door and she follows, clipping along beside me at boggling pace on those high heels of hers. "What are you doing?" I stop to ask.

"Walking with you."

"What happened to sitting at your desk and making me come to you?"

"I lied."

"Don’t you have index cards to do?"

"Josh," her pitch rises a notch.

"Go," I order, pointing back at her desk.

"Fine," she sighs, putting up less of a fight than I expected. I watch as she slinks, disappointed, back to her desk. Planting herself in her chair, she glances in my direction and sticks her tongue out at me. I proceed towards the Communications bullpen before her action can plant unneeded fantasies in my head.

I run into Sam as flies out of his office on his way to the meeting.

"Hey," he greets.

"Hey." We fall easily into step together.

"You look chipper this morning." He acknowledges the hard-to-miss grin on my face.

"Yes, I do."

"You want to share with the rest of the class?"

"Later," I put him off.

"Later?"

"Later."

"I’m going to hold you to that," he promises.

"Okay."

We stride through the open door of the Oval Office to find Leo, Toby, and CJ already present, and loudly planning the day’s strategy.

"Good morning," I grin.

"Okay, who are you, and what have you done with the real Josh Lyman?" CJ asks.

"CJ," I fire back, "you’re starting to sound like Toby."

"I take offense to that," Toby remarks dryly.

"He’s chipper," Sam says. "Wouldn’t you say he’s chipper?"

"He’s definitely chipper," CJ agrees.

"Did you run down a Republican on the way to work this morning?" Toby narrows his eyes as he examines me.

"Even better," I hint.

"What’s better than running down a Republican?" Toby asks.

"Humiliating Karen Cahill?" Sam suggests.

"Even better."

"Leo? You want a piece of this?" Toby turns to Leo, who sits cross-legged on the sofa. Leo opens his mouth to comment, but the sound of the portico doors opening shifts his intention. Toby, Leo, and CJ stand as the President sweeps into the office with Charlie Young in tow.

"You have a security briefing at nine, Mr. President, followed by a meeting with the Secretary of Health and Human Services. At noon, you’re meeting with Ambassador Richfield. After that you have an hour for lunch."

"Okay," announces Bartlet, "but today’s Friday, so tell Mrs. Landingham I want a Philly cheesesteak."

"I can try, Mr. President," Charlie placates his boss.

"You won’t get anything accomplished with that attitude, Charlie." Bartlet drops his briefcase in the center of the desk with a loud ‘plunk’ and begins fishing files and folders out of it.

"Yes, sir."

"Go, now. The shrew may not have had her morning coffee yet. If you’re lucky you can catch her unawares."

"I’ll do my best to be stealthy, sir."

"Good morning, everyone," the President glances up from his briefcase, sliding his glasses onto his face.

"Good morning, Mr. President," the entire room choruses.

"And what matters of national import were you busily discussing before I graced you with my presence?"

"Josh," Sam pipes up, "and his unusual state of chipper-ness."

"I don’t think that’s a word, Sam."

"English is a living and breathing language, sir."

"Good point," the President acknowledges. "Josh? Are you in an unusual state of chipper-ness this morning?"

"That could be an accurate description, Mr. President," I answer, trying to control the feel-good smile on my face. I fear that my dimples are giving me away, though.

"Did you run down a Republican on the way to work?" the President asks. Toby releases a nearly inaudible snort behind me.

"No, sir."

"Well, I suppose it doesn’t hurt to dream," he says with a sigh.

"No, it doesn’t sir," I agree.

"Josh is enjoying his little guessing game, Mr. President," CJ joins in.

"Guessing game, is it? I’m good at guessing games. Tell the truth, you got us enough votes to pass 638, didn’t you?"

"Unfortunately, no, sir."

"You discovered something about Shallick that’s going to ruin his chances for reelection?"

"I thought you said you were good at this, sir."

"I’m not?"

"Of course, sir. You’re the best guesser I’ve ever met," I chuckle.

"That’s right."

"Oh, for heaven’s sake!" Leo bursts out. "Are you people blind or just stupid?" He’s careful to not direct his question to the President in any way. "Obviously, he and Donna have managed to work things out."

"That was my next guess," the President points out. "Is it true, Josh?" I answer with a grin and everyone in the room offers their heartfelt congratulations.

Sam mumbles under his breath, "Later, I’m going to ask and you’re going to answer."

After thirty seconds of subdued celebration, Leo speaks up to kick the meeting into high gear. "Mr. President, we’re receiving reports of an outbreak of bacterial meningitis in the southwest."

President Bartlet’s previously jovial expression melts away into genuine solemnity. "What are we looking at?"

Hearing my cue, I open my binder and begin to rattle off as much information as I have available. "State authorities in Texas are reporting four hundred cases of bacterial meningitis at this time, Mr. President. While normally this may not be something to worry about, they’re also reporting a twenty-five percent mortality rate, which is ten percent above the norm."

"Why the high mortality rate?" the President asks.

"According to the Texas Department of Health, they believe the outbreak began among the migrant worker population in the southern part of the state."

"Illegals?"

"Most of them, sir. It’s understandable why they’re afraid to seek medical help. Also, according to my information the incubation period for this illness is about seven hours and only another twelve before the disease runs its course. It moves very quickly and by the time they realize what they have, it’s most likely too late."

"Is there any good news coming?"

"Well, the good news is that it’s not spread through casual contact, Mr. President. Although the truth isn’t much better — bacterial meningitis can be spread through…." I scan my list for the known means of transmission, "the exchange of respiratory and throat secretions, as well as prolonged contact with an infected person. It’s airborne."

"How far afield has this thing spread?" Still in the spotlight, the President stares at me over the rims of his glasses.

"We have reports of cases in Corpus Christi, Brownsville, El Paso, and San Antonio, Mr. President."

"It’s cutting a wide swath," Bartlet muses.

"Texas is officially asking for assistance, sir."

"Josh," Leo says after a nod from the President. "Talk to your guy at the CDC and come up with a strategy for containment. CJ, that’s what you tell the press."

"Got it," she says as she scribbles Leo’s instructions in her leather bound notepad.

"Sam?" Leo asks. Sam goes on to expound on the latest bill introduced that will impose harsher penalties for railway sabotage. "Meet with the Deputy Secretary from Transportation," Leo orders. "Toby?"

"The ICP treaty."

"Later," responds Leo.

And with that, the President disbands the meeting.

"Josh?" Leo’s voices catches me on the way the out the door. "My office."

Altering my direction, I cross the Oval Office and pass through the connecting door into Leo’s domain. Leo joins me a moment later.

TBC

****