Dogs by Nancy Kress

restricted area, ma’am. You’ll have to leave.”
    â€œCertainly,” Tessa said, “as soon as you tell me what’s going on here, and how I can best help. Are you deputizing citizens? I’m a former FBI agent with firearms training. Have you got a police officer to run my creds? Where’s the critical-incident commander?” She held out various papers and a passport.
    Latkin, irritated, said, “No one is deputizing citizens, ma’am, and—” at the same moment that Jess said, “I am.”
    He wasn’t sure why he did it. They did need extra help, and an ex-FBI agent would be as good as anyone, maybe better. But mostly it was because he disliked Joanne Flaherty and because even Latkin, with his take-charge demeanor after less than a day in Tyler, was getting to Jess. Or maybe he was just tired.
    The woman smiled at him, the first time he’d seen her do that. Five foot-six, maybe 140 pounds, a lot of muscle. She wore jeans, an open jacket, and a wedding ring. Jess would bet she was packing. Somehow she had that look.
    Latkin said, frowning, “I don’t think—”
    â€œNo, it’s fine,” Joanne Flaherty said briskly. “Local law enforcement often recruits other branches of law enforcement during crises. The aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, for instance.” She seemed pleased, which disappointed Jess. It puzzled him, too. She seemed to want as big a show as possible—why?
    Jess turned to his brand new deputy. “Sheriff just pulled in. He can run your creds. Why are you ex-FBI?”
    â€œQuit. Personal reasons.”
    â€œYou have to sign a liability waiver.”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œYou have any experience with dogs?”
    â€œSome.”
    That could mean anything. But she wouldn’t have to do much except help lift cages and take reports, riding with Jess or Billy. He looked at her again. Not a raving beauty, but pretty enough. She better not ride with Billy.
    â€œWhat’s your name?”
    â€œTessa Sanderson,” she said.

INTERIM
    Deputy Chief of Staff Terence Porter looked up irritably from his desk in the West Wing of the White House. It was eight P.M. and he would have liked to go home, but the president was still working in the Oval and that meant everybody was working late. "Yes, Kathy?"
    â€œJoanne Flaherty is still waiting to see you,” his secretary said.
    â€œWho?”
    â€œJoanne Flaherty. You sent her out to Tyler this afternoon.”
    â€œOh, right. Well…all right, show her in.”
    Flaherty bustled in. The deputy rose. “I’m sorry you had to wait, Joanne. We’re right in the middle of—well, it’s always something. You know,” he said, including her among those who knew, smiling wryly. The deputy was known for his charm.
    â€œOh, yes, of course,” she said cozily, and he remembered why he disliked her. “But I think you’ll want to hear what’s going on in Tyler. There’s a real opportunity here, Terry.”
    It was not her place to tell him what was an opportunity, and he had not asked her to use his first name. He folded his arms across his chest and waited. Oblivious, she told her story. When she finished, he said, “Well, that’s interesting. Thank you, Joanne, I appreciate your effort.” He smiled and sat down, busying himself with papers on his desk.
    â€œBut…shall I go back to Tyler tomorrow?”
    â€œNo, that’s all right. Good night, and thanks again.”
    Flustered and angry, she left. The deputy picked up the phone and asked to see the Chief of Staff. Ten minutes later he was shown into Hugh Martin’s office. “Hugh, something I think we should pay attention to. An opportunity.”
    â€œWhat’s that?” Hugh Martin, the president’s long-time friend and former campaign manager, had one of the best political minds of his generation. He could, the Washington