Some stand just within the Office, a few in the doorway, some peer in from the hallway. Men, women and children. All of them armed with pistols. The children and the smaller adults are at the front—so the taller ones behind can shoot over their shoulders.

All of them wear the President’s face.

“That’s the mark of a good servant,” he says to me. “A true servant. Someone who loves me so much they will change their faces to look just like me.” He shrugs. “We couldn’t get the clones right. But this is even better.”

He moves to the side of the room.

Removing himself, I know, from the line of fire. A line that is directed solely at me.

“You… you are mad,” I say, finally looking at him, accepting this fate...

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