II
“To Governor Woodhouse! The winner of the Wisconsin primary and presumptive winner of the presidential primary!” Moira cried, holding her beer aloft.
We all lifted our glasses to meet hers and cheered our victory. The primary had been grueling, but now that it was behind us, the future looked even brighter. There had always been the chance that Woodhouse wouldn’t be nominated, and then we’d all have to close up shop and hop to another candidate. Or more likely, in my case, head back home.
“God, I love this place,” Sam said as a platter of fries were set out before us.
We were currently inside The Station, our favorite bar in town—primarily because it also served after-hours bar grub. Not the best place to eat in town, but they served beer, too. So, win-win.
I reached for the fries,
