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politics to yourself—but I voted for Ryland. He’s a man who can bring the country together again.”
    â€œThank you, Father. When I see him, I’ll tell him you said so. But that’s why I’ve got to go back as soon as I can. There’s a lot of work to do. I should get to Washington and help with the transition.”
    â€œSo you’ll be getting a job in the new administration? You don’t look too happy about it.”
    â€œOh, I am,” I assured him. “Who wouldn’t want to work for the president of the United States? They can’t offer me a big job, of course. Even though I ran the campaign . . . for a while. I don’t have any White House experience or the kind of technical knowledge required for the top positions.”
    I stopped myself; there was no need to go into specifics.
    â€œAnyway,” I went on, “with my background, I won’t get an offer for anything that important. Maybe an assistant to an assistant undersecretary in some department. Which is fine,” I said, resting my backside against the door of the car. “It all matters. But, between you and me, I’m not crazy about the idea of going back to Washington.”
    Father Damon shoved his hands even deeper in his pockets, looking puzzled. “Really? I visited once and it seemed like a wonderful city. There’s so much to do. All the museums and monuments—”
    â€œI’ll never get to see any of them. Politics is a great career, especially if you win. But, if you’ll forgive the analogy, it’s also something of a mad monk society.”
    Father Damon laughed.
    â€œNo, seriously,” I said. “If you work in politics, there is this silent agreement that you will have no personal life, no outside interests, no outside anything. People who sleep more than four hours in a night are considered slackers. It’s a competition to see who can kill themselves quickest.
    â€œIt’s not so bad when you’re doing a campaign, because there’s this . . .” I looked up into the branches of the nearest maple tree, trying to find the right word. “. . . this adrenaline rush. I think that’s why they call a campaign a race. That’s what it feels like, like racing.
    â€œYou’re pushing yourself as hard as you can toward the goal, throwing everything you’ve got into it. It’s as if your whole body is flooded with endorphins and you feel powerful, like you’ve got a chance to change the world! Your mind is so sharp, your thinking so clear. You know exactly where the goal line is and nothing else matters. The difference is that instead of lasting for one hundred yards, or a mile, or a marathon, the feeling lasts for weeks or months or, if the finish line is the White House, even years! But the feeling of winning is . . .”
    I stopped myself again.
    If I told him that in the middle of rushing to my dying sister’s bedside, I had, for a moment, been having the best day of my life, Father Damon would think I was a terrible person. Maybe I was.
    â€œWell . . . it’s hard to describe. It’s amazing. And fleeting. As soon as the win is over, you start racing again. Governing is just as intense, but the course is even longer and the goal is harder to define. And you know when you finally reach the finish line, four years later, or even eight,” I said, thinking that in eight years I’d be forty-four years old, “there is no way you’ll be able to match the high of that first victory. Nothing could top that.”
    â€œWhy not join a new campaign?” the priest asked. “Find a new candidate.”
    I shook my head. He didn’t understand. How could he? Even with his imposing white collar and wise gray head, he was still just a civilian.
    And I was a card-carrying member of the Mad Monk Society.
    â€œIt doesn’t work like that, Father. Not for me. I’ve spent my whole career