“Cunningham. Rachael Cunningham.” She rolled her head to look at me. “I was a teacher; an adjunct. Comparative politics. Political methodology. That sort of thing.”
Her eyes were cow-brown with emerald highlights.
“That sounds interesting, indeed,” I said—calmly, clinically. It seemed especially important to be so; I wasn’t sure why. “And necessary.”
She hrmphed. “In the age of Tucker? What did it matter?”
She was referring, of course, to Donald J. Tucker, the 45th President of the United States.
I looked at my moonboots, knowing I should let her rest but not wanting to go. “Whatever happened to him, you think? In this—this Flashback, as you called it.”
She faced the ceiling as though in deep thought. “Who knows. He’s probably golfing in an underground bunker somewhere. It’s funny; I
