“Yeah, but a lot of people are pretty pissed with Rollins.” The boy looked up at Jack, abruptly recalling his connection. “No offense, man.”
Jack waved it off.
“I’m on his campaign site now,” said another guest.
Jack and Javi joined the group that gathered to watch.
Wes Johnson sat in a leather armchair in what appeared to be his home office, decorated with family photos and framed diplomas and bookshelves packed with biographies.
“I’m going to keep this brief, so everyone can get back to enjoying the holiday,” Johnson said. “I know there have been some calls for me to withdraw my candidacy, but I am here to assure you that I remain deeply committed to this campaign. I have discovered a new cause during my time on the trail, and I promise I will never stop fighting for all Americans with short strings and for anyone else who feels mistreated or marginalized by those in power.”
He leaned forward in his seat, closer to the camera. “I know that, since the boxes arrived, it’s often felt like we’ve been moving backwards, but the reason I wanted to say something tonight, of all nights, is because this moment, on the verge of a new year, is the only time when our entire world comes together in the hope for a fresh start and a better tomorrow. And I remain as hopeful as ever for the people of our great nation. I, too, have been following the many stories and voices of the Strung Together movement, and I invite you to place all of that energy and compassion and bravery—and, most importantly, all of that hope—into this campaign. I promise, this fight isn’t over.”
The crowd grew still in the wake of Johnson’s statement, until one of the more inebriated partygoers slurred, “I fucking love that guy.”
“But it sounds like he knows he’s losing.”
“No way! Haven’t you heard about that huge Strung Together event next month? Apparently it’s happening all over the world. I’ve heard Johnson is involved.”
“That just sounds like a big PR stunt for short-stringers.” Someone rolled their eyes. “A whole lot of hype for nothing.”
“It’s much bigger than that. You’ll see.”
“I don’t know,” a boy said, turning toward Jack. “Your uncle may be a son of a bitch, but at least he’s tough. He could actually get shit done. Plus, he’s brutally honest. You gotta respect that.”
Jack shifted uncomfortably in his shoes, grateful when someone yelled, “Shots!” from across the room, and the group quickly dispersed.
It had been weeks since Jack last attended a campaign stop. His aunt had delivered the news in person, disinviting Jack from all future events, sealing his destiny to be cast aside. Jack still saw his father occasionally—as long as Anthony wasn’t around—but he had come to realize that the family he was losing now wasn’t really worth belonging to. At least, not anymore. Maybe when Grandpa Cal was alive the Hunters still stood for courage and country, but with Anthony and Katherine now at the helm, it was purely self-interest, winning at all costs. Javier was the one who was actually carrying on the original Hunter legacy, committing his whole life to service, in spite of its unjust brevity.
Before she left Jack’s apartment for the final time, Katherine had even tried to excuse her husband.
“Look, Jack, I know this must be incredibly hard for you,” she said. “But you have to trust me, your uncle knows that not all short-stringers are dangerous. He’s just trying to protect us from the ones that are.”
Anthony the defender. Guardian of the long-stringers. The man who would keep America safe, who would rule with an iron string.
Something had changed recently, that much was true. And perhaps Jack’s interruption at his uncle’s rally had played a small part in that. But Anthony was still unstoppable, Jack thought, no matter how many times #StrungTogether might be typed out on a keyboard, no matter how big this mysterious event might be, no matter how hopeful Johnson may feel.
How incredible that one dastardly clever performance—Anthony holding up his string back in June—had snowballed so fiercely, over the past six months, as the shootings and the bombing left people scared and vulnerable, as the failed attack in Manhattan turned Anthony into a hero, as Wes Johnson’s short string made him look weak, and as many a downtrodden long-stringer listened to Anthony and finally felt powerful, at the expense of his short-string brothers.
How could this new movement, only just gaining ground, be enough to reverse all of that?