Time passed. The Democrats were destroyed in the midterm elections, leaving me with plenty of political challenges to occupy my mind. My administration did a great deal of good, but not enough. Never enough. I ran for re-election and won by a wide margin. My approval ratings remained in a decent range, with occasional dips.

It was a fair assessment of my own mental landscape: in a decent range, with occasional dips.

I’ve been a runner for years. At first, in the early days of my constant Secret Service shadow, they kept their distance. Later, when the campaign heated up and it became clear I wasn’t just a viable candidate, but that I was going to be the nominee, they got closer.

After the inauguration I only ran on White House grounds, and I ran with an agent beside me unless I requested they stay back.

My favorite running partner in my detail was Courtney Morrison, who always challenged me to go a little farther, a little harder. Not in so many words, of course, but running with a woman that fit would motivate anyone.

On Courtney’s day off, it was usually Roberto, but he’d broken his foot and couldn’t go immediately back to running, even after he was cleared to return to work.

I was ready to be disappointed when I left my bedroom with my sneakers tied and my hair pulled back.

Except the agent waiting for me was Ram.

I’d heard through various grapevines that the agents were responsible for physical fitness on their own time. They had a gym of their own (I’d been invited to use it—emphatically—but I hated treadmills), and I knew a lot of them could be found there before or after their shifts.

Good lord, he looked younger in track pants. I suddenly felt like a pervy old woman.

“How old are you, Ram?”

His eyebrows rose. “Thirty-seven, ma’am.”

Well. It wasn’t as bad as I’d imagined. I was only…oh god. Sixteen years older than him. “I was in high school when you were born.”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Never mind.” What was I doing, interrogating my nominal bodyguard about his age? “Let’s go. You sure you can keep up?”

He smiled. “I think so, ma’am. But you can go easy on me if you want.”

I did not want. In fact, I tried to show off—for about twenty minutes. That’s when I came to my senses and realized if I didn’t start pacing myself, my thirty-seven-year-old running partner would end up carrying me back to the residence.

Not the impression I wanted to make.

I’d coasted the first thirty years of my life without any inclination to exercise. Right around my thirtieth birthday, I’d acquired a sort of…Hank called it melancholia, because that fit the spirit of the thing, and also didn’t scare people the way depression did. Since I knew I wanted to run for senator (after I lost my incredibly premature bid for mayor), I didn’t want to officially enter treatment. A good friend of Hank’s talked me through some of what he called “lifestyle changes” that might help.

So I quit smoking and started working out. It wasn’t quite that easy—and it sure wasn’t quick—but little by little I clawed my way up out of the melancholia. And I was lucky. In the midst of it Hank told me that if it came between choosing my life or my career, I could get a job at Starbucks for all he cared, but I was sure as hell going to get treatment.

He was so outraged that I couldn’t simply search for a therapist, make an appointment. Find medication. It took me years to feel that outrage on my own behalf.

But it was never hard to feel it for others, to try from within to dismantle the systems that kept mental health treatment so electrified in policy, and so judged—sometimes overtly, sometimes subtly—in person. Even a brief survey of my various political offices will make it clear that I went out of my way to fund mental health right alongside physical health. (Note: After my presidency ended I finally walked into a therapist’s office without fear of exposure. It is a goal for my remaining years that someday everyone will be able to do the same.)

Perhaps foolishly, I found myself sharing some of this with Ram on that first run we took together. Maybe because I liked his smile. Maybe because it was always on my mind between trying not to cut funding, and trying to find programs that would make funding go further. Or maybe just because talking gave me an excuse to slow down a little.

“It makes sense to me, ma’am.” He wasn’t even a little out of breath. “I do something every day—weights, yoga, karate, swimming. Keeps my brain lively.”

“Oh, you swim? You need to try the residence pool. It’s spectacular.” I said it without thinking, focused more on pushing my legs a little farther.

He raised an eyebrow. “Hard to protect you if I’m in my trunks, ma’am. I’m pretty sure our guns aren’t waterproof.”

I winced. “Of course. I apologize. That was…” Silly? Stupid? Wildly inappropriate? Please come swimming with me, Mr. Secret Service Agent. It’ll be fun. Yet it would have been fun, I had no doubt. And hell, he should be so lucky. I might have been sixteen years his senior, but I looked good and I felt great. And I was the president.

“I suppose you really can’t just switch into a suit for an hour in the middle of the day. Obviously. But you’re missing out, because that pool is amazing.”

“I’m sure it is, ma’am.” He paused. “Though I’m not sure when the last time you had an hour in the middle of the day to swim was.”

“Ha. Good point. I mostly go in the evenings.” Which he knew, so why was I telling him? “My point was the same as yours, though you said it better: doing some amount of exercise each day really does seem to keep my brain clearer. I think you’ll agree that’s a good thing.”

“A very good thing, ma’am.”

Damn, that speech had been too long. I slowed to a walk. “You pass. You may accompany me on my runs.”

Ram Ruiz looked over, one side of his lips quirked up playfully, but all he said was, “Pleased to hear it, ma’am.”

“Oh shut up.”

That grin again. His eyes twinkled. “Ma’am?” All innocence. Except not in the least.

“If it wasn’t beneath the dignity of my position, Ram, I’d shove you over right now and run back without you.”

“You really think you’d make it all the way back before I caught up?”

“You really think you’d have the audacity to catch up with me if I tried?”

“It’s sort of my job.”

“Don’t hide behind that. What if it wasn’t?”

“Well, then, ma’am, you would have never been able to shove me in the first place. I’m very agile.”

“Is that right?”

We both heard it at once—the teasing, the edge of flirtation. I looked away fast. He fell back half a step. I started a very slow jog and didn’t stop until we were almost at the end of the loop.

But I had to say something. “I apologize again.” Unspecific, but I thought he could take it for any number of things.

“There’s really no need, ma’am. Please don’t hesitate to request another agent if you—if I’m—if you want another agent on your runs.”

“I don’t.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

And that’s how we left it.