Chapter 2: The Cost of Loyalty

As a mere observer, I obediently stand in the corner, quiet as a mouse. There were many reasons for this defeat. But at the root, the populist movement’s momentum is unstoppable, and our side is weak.

I pressed my back to the wall, the same way I used to in my high school gym during dodgeball, hoping no one would remember I was there. The Cabinet table looked like the aftermath of a college all-nighter—crumpled reports, empty Red Bulls, and the stale funk of too many stressed-out bureaucrats. You could feel the dread, thick and suffocating, like the city in the dead of summer when the power goes out.

[The troops weren’t trained, Sutton was forced by you, John, to go out in a rush, then there was a hurricane, the supply lines were cut, the generals wouldn’t obey orders—no timing, no advantage, no unity, how could you win? Losing was inevitable!]

I’m grumbling inwardly when I suddenly feel the temperature drop around me, especially a chill at my neck. Weird, it’s not even winter yet…

Maybe it was the air conditioning—or maybe it was just the collective shiver of men and women realizing the game was up. Even the Secret Service at the door looked uneasy, hands twitching near their radios.

As the military report is read, the room falls silent.

“Hurricane for days, roads flooded, the rebels sent Colonel Miller to attack by surprise, our supply lines were cut, Sutton had to turn back to help, leaving General Carter to guard the camp. But Carter couldn’t control his men, the troops followed and left. The rebels seized the opportunity to attack…”

“This battle, forty thousand elite lost.”

The numbers barely registered until I saw John’s face—gray, like he’d swallowed a mouthful of ashes. You could practically hear the country’s collective heartbeat stutter.

Then the Cabinet starts arguing again. Some want to punish Sutton. Some propose negotiating with the populists. But no one talks about how to actually help Sutton.

[Even now, you’re not thinking about saving the last bit of the old America. Hopeless.]

[America is finished! My days of slacking are over...]

I look eagerly at John, really wanting to tell him: Don’t trust these politicians, they’re all just waiting to cut a deal with the populists. But John inexplicably glares at me, then turns to the Cabinet and says resolutely: “Issue the order! Strip Sutton of his command and Secretary of Defense title! Order him to gather the remnants and guard the line, seek opportunity to counterattack, and redeem himself with merit!”

His eyes pinned me, and I felt the same shame I did when I flunked out of college—like the world was about to collapse and it was all my fault.

I nearly curse aloud.

[Sutton is already out of supplies! If he keeps fighting, only death awaits.]

I gritted my teeth, knuckles whitening. Some of these guys were more worried about their stock portfolios than saving what was left of the country.

“The populists… hmph, just a minor threat, a rabble. As long as Sutton regroups and fights again, this battle… will be won.”

The last words are spoken without conviction.

[Brother-in-law, you don’t believe it yourself, do you?]

John closes his eyes and says faintly: “All dismissed.”

I decide to go home and pack up my valuables. Time to run! If I don’t run, I’ll die!

But unexpectedly, I can’t run at all. As military reports flood into DC like snowflakes, for some reason, my cheapskate brother-in-law keeps summoning me to the White House to listen in, and after each report, he frowns at me. None of the reports are good news; maybe he just wants someone outside the usual circles to keep him company. He doesn’t talk to me much, just occasionally asks my opinion. For the sake of my own neck, I can only play dumb. But I often can’t help but sigh and grumble inside.

It’s like being kept after school, only the principal is the President and the stakes are a lot higher than missed homework. The only upside: staff started bringing me real coffee instead of whatever sludge they scraped from the break room pot.

Knowing Sutton would die, yet unable to save him, I always feel guilty. My dad, however, is overjoyed, no longer calling me a disappointment, and even starts calling me “my lucky son.” My First Lady sister looks at me with comfort, often sighing that her brother has grown up and is more capable than our father. Even my nieces and nephews are more affectionate and admiring. People are flesh and blood; now I can’t bear to see them die.

Funny how fast your stock can rise in a crisis. Suddenly, family movie night became a celebration, everyone treating me like I was about to pull off a miracle. It was the kind of thing that made you want to do better—or at least not screw it all up.

As October passes, the final military report arrives. The Ohio River is lost. Sutton died in battle, his body never found. I gaze toward Kentucky and silently think:

[When Sutton dies, America falls.]

[My poor brother-in-law, next March, that resignation letter in the Oval Office, you still can’t escape it.]

I caught my sister’s eye across the table—her smile was thin, the kind you paste on when you’re just trying to keep the peace.

John’s eyes are complicated. He stares at me for a while, then suddenly says: “Did Sutton really die?... Did he perhaps just surrender to the rebels?”

Listen to that—how can you even say such a thing?

A fire rises in my chest, and I can’t hold back. I slam the table and stand up:

“Everyone in the country knows what kind of man Sutton was—why do you alone not know, or not believe it?”

“Because of your endless suspicion, you sidelined loyal officials for years, freezing his heart and everyone else’s! If Sutton wanted to surrender, he would have done so when you forced him to go to war—why wait until today?”

“But he was just a fool!”

I can’t hold back, and tears fall.

“He still fought and died for you, for your America! Now not even his body remains!”

“Mr. President! Ask your conscience—did Sutton ever wrong America, even once?”

“What kind of leader are you?”

Maybe my outburst stuns him; after a long while, John finally reacts, his face showing both shame and anger: “You are bold! Out of line!”

“I lost my cool. Mr. President, please forgive me.”

[Ming didn’t die at the hands of the officials; America died at your hands, John.]

[When you’re gone, half our people will be trampled by outsiders, and the rest will end up working for them.]

“Get out! Get out of my sight!” John grabs a mug and throws it at me.

Though I’m splashed with coffee, I breathe a sigh of relief. Fine, as long as he doesn’t have me arrested.

“I’ll see myself out.”

Standing at the White House gate, I look into the distance.

[Even knowing the future, what use is it? Brother-in-law won’t believe me. I’d better pack up and find a way to escape... sigh, must take my sister and her kids with me, can’t let them go down with this foolish President.]

“Still not leaving!”

John’s angry voice comes again.

“Hey, I’m leaving now!” I scurry away.

Strange, does this guy have x-ray vision?

Back home, I set up candles and offerings, pouring three shots of whiskey toward Kentucky.

“General Sutton, rest in peace.”

“This America...”

I silently make a promise.

Late at night, my father hurriedly drags me up: “The President urgently summons you to the White House!”

Damn, can’t even sleep—my brother-in-law is obsessed. Even Amazon warehouse jobs let you sleep. The White House gates aren’t open, so I’m hoisted up over the fence by Secret Service—humiliating.

They tossed me over like a sack of potatoes. My jeans got caught on the iron bars and I landed flat on my back. The Secret Service agent gave me a look like, “Sorry, man, protocol.”

A young aide leads me to a side room and retreats far away. Inside, under dim lights, I see John, hair a mess. Hearing movement, he looks up, his eyes bloodshot.

“Derek, can I trust you?”

He ran a hand through his hair, the way he did when we lost Aunt Margaret. For a second, I saw the brother-in-law, not the President.