He ran into the room, leaning the door shut behind him. What's going on, he thought? his mind raced with his pulse. Calm, be calm.
McCain surveyed the room. Empty. Double beds, standard room in the Biltmore, Scottsdale. Designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. Fucking Wright, McCain thought to himself. The room was cramped, poor natural light. Wright always designed for what looked right, not what felt right. This room didn't feel right. His friends were here, fellow Republicans. Smart, thoughtful men, smiling at him. As McCain turned away, he caught out of the corner their smiles hardening, fading. He quickly looked back at them, but they were gone.
A pounding came from the hall. She found me, he thought. Opening the door, McCain peered out, and quickly ran across to another room, trying to ignore Palin standing in the darkness. This room was dark, but he could hear voices. Conservative pundits. Singing his praises. But when he flipped on the light, nothing. Except for a moment, McCain could swear he heard them. Swearing.
More pounding, shaking the room. He ran out, not even looking at her standing in the hall, laughing. He ducked into another room. This one was less cramped. He recognized it. The Presidential suite. He remembered staying here once, back when he was.. oh no.
Sitting in the corner, was John McCain from the year 2000. He looked angry. 2008 McCain took a step toward him, trying to focus. 2000 McCain turned the floor lamp off, bathing the room in moonlight. 2008 moved to the lamp, and switched it back on. 2000 McCain was gone. Dammit, 2008 McCain thought. He took his reputation and integrity with him.
The pounding grew louder. She was just outside the door. Knowing there was no escape from her, Mccain sat down, and switched off the lamp. The chair was still warm.