Chapter 3: The Unlikely Patriot

“Huh?” I panic a bit.

[Usually when someone says this, they’re about to silence you. I don’t want to die!]

John glares at me: “Come with me.” He gets up and walks behind the screen in the Oval Office. After a moment’s hesitation, I follow.

Behind the screen is another world. John walks ahead, blocking my view. Curious, I crane my neck and see a massive oak table with a 3D map of the United States. Though not quite the shape I remember, this is indeed my country, my home.

The thing looked like something out of a war movie. LED lights marked the front lines, little digital flags blinking. It was both impressive and terrifying. I could smell the faint tang of cigar smoke from some previous emergency.

Standing at the table, John stares at the map for a long time: “Derek, you know the situation better than I do; America is beset by internal and external troubles... it’s in grave danger.”

I nod subconsciously, then shake my head: “Mr. President, you worry too much.”

[Now you know to worry when the fire’s at your feet—too late.]

“Have I... really made mistakes? But I’ve worked tirelessly for this country. Except for Washington and Lincoln, which President was more diligent than me?”

I’m silent.

[Diligence is useless. People praise you and put a medal on you, and you really think you’re a great leader?]

[General Marshall, Secretary Evans, General Sutton... even the controversial Secretary Grant—what capable person didn’t get axed because of you?]

[In four years, you changed the Chief of Staff four times; not only do you misjudge people, but you’ve lost all the Cabinet’s trust.]

[You have no idea where the money is, only know how to squeeze the middle class for taxes. Franklin already told you: the people are the foundation. Did you read all those books for nothing?]

[The hearts of officials and the people, you kept none. If only you were less meddlesome, lazier, America wouldn’t have fallen so fast.]

I’m happily complaining in my mind when suddenly a thunderous cry rings in my ear:

“Ah—”

Looking up, I see John’s fists clenched, his whole body shaking, face covered in tears.

“What? Mr. President, what’s wrong?” I quickly support him to sit and pull out a handkerchief to wipe his face.

As I wipe, something feels wrong. Oh, wrong handkerchief—this was a gag gift from Melissa, embroidered with a cartoon pin-up. What a waste.

John clearly sees the pattern too, blushes, and throws it back at me: “Ridiculous, put it away.”

[Tsk, no taste. This is custom, worth a fortune. Do you know how much money can be made from online sales? Enough to scare you, you penny-pincher.]

Maybe this interlude calms John; he isn’t as agitated, adjusts his breath, and stares at me for a while, his eyes even starting to sparkle.

I get goosebumps: “Mr. President, why are you looking at me like that?”

[He saw my cowardly side—does he want to silence me? No way, we’re family...]

“America’s situation today is all my fault.” John suddenly speaks. After that, he sighs, as if letting go of a heavy burden. I stare wide-eyed.

[Rare—stubborn John actually admits fault.]

Before I can react, John sighs: “Though I know my mistakes, I don’t know how to save America and my people.”

[Oh, it’s not completely hopeless...]

John suddenly looks up at me.

“Mr. President, why are you staring at me again? Who are you trying to scare?”

“Derek, do you have any strategies to save the country?”

John isn’t stupid; he must feel that America is at the edge. But for him to seek help from me, a playboy with a bad reputation—he must be desperate.

After a moment’s hesitation, I shake my head and say no—I’m just a slacker, what do I know.

John sneers, gets up and gets in my face, word by word:

“Stop pretending! You think I don’t know your secret?”

My legs go weak: “Mr. President, what do you mean?”

[I—have I been exposed?]

John snorts, hands behind his back, expression unreadable, half-smiling.

“Derek, you clearly have great talent, but you pretend to be a slacker. These days, I’ve seen right through you.”

I breathe a sigh of relief: “Mr. President, you’re mistaken, I’m not, I haven’t—”

[Oh, so that’s what he means by exposed. Scared me to death.]

“Nonsense!” John rolls his eyes, annoyed. “I know it’s a family rule that in-laws can’t interfere in politics, so you hide your abilities. But now, America’s on the brink—how can I care about old rules? Didn’t Washington’s son-in-law help save the country? Stop pretending! If not for me, at least think of your sister and her kids.”

The look in John’s eyes is full of sincerity and urgency. Daring to compare himself to Washington. He started with a log cabin, you’ll end with a resignation letter. What class are you, what class is he? Trying to bask in his glory?

But since things had come to this, I simply nod: “Fine, since that’s so, I won’t pretend. I’ll lay my cards out—I’m Ben Franklin reborn!”

As long as there’s hope of pulling America back from the abyss, I’m willing to try. Even if the populists could beat the foreign invaders, I’d take my family and flee to Canada. Whoever wins, it can’t be the outsiders. This is my wish as an American, and also the wish of those loyal souls who died for this country.

“But Mr. President, Franklin could shine because Washington trusted him fully—even Adams never doubted his prime minister.”

[But you, the suspicious you, would you trust me?]

Soon, I get my answer. John solemnly grips my hands, his voice low: “I, John Caldwell, swear by the founders of America, never to doubt you, Derek! Will you help me hold up the sky?”

He uses “I,” not “We.”

I drop my usual joking, exhale: “That is my wish, I dare not ask for more.”

[Since that’s so, I’ll bet big.]

Standing before the map, I clear my throat: “Mr. President, I’ll speak bluntly. If I offend, you won’t turn on me and have me arrested, right?”

“Say what you want.”

I still don’t trust him; after all, my brother-in-law often turns on people. Just now, in a rush of blood, I said I’d help him; now that the heat cooled, I get nervous. So I ask him to write an executive order for protection.

John glares at me, but finally writes the order and signs it. With the “immunity pass” in hand, I speak freely. I analyze the real strength of the populists, foreign powers, and regional warlords. My brother-in-law, stuck in DC, is clueless about the real situation—too naive. His repeated leniency and appeasement of the rebels have drained America’s foundation. The more he listens, the darker John’s face grows, his brows furrowed: “The people all want to rebel against me; I have truly failed as President.”

I shake my head and say, though you made mistakes, not all are your fault. Natural disasters aren’t your fault, nor is land being seized by the powerful solely your fault. When the people starve, they rebel; it’s always been so.

“If not for my incompetence, how would Heaven send so many disasters?” John slumps.

“No, no, it’s not that bad.”

I quickly reassure him, explain the “climate crisis,” afraid he’ll get so discouraged he’ll resign early. Also say the crisis will end soon, just hang on. Once things settle, we’ll deal with the powerful, clean up the elites, redistribute land, open up trade, curb factional strife, and promote sustainable crops. In a few years, you’ll be a great President—no, a wise leader.

Finally, I comfort him: America’s problems are deep-rooted; past Presidents just kicked the can down the road, and you happened to be holding it when it exploded—just unlucky.

Hearing my comfort, John isn’t happy, looks about to have a heart attack. I quickly change the subject: let’s talk about how to get through the current crisis.