One of the perks of working on Capitol Hill was its close proximity to a variety of interesting lunch break locations. Even on shorter "coffee breaks", Mira could circle the Capitol Building, the Supreme Court, and the Library of Congress, all in a 15 minute walk. In nice weather, she'd eat lunch on a concrete barrier in front of the gleaming white dome of the Capitol, or on the wide steps of the Thomas Jefferson Building, home to the second largest library in the world. It was also home, for the better part of most weekdays, to Mira's friend, Lashay.

One of the perks of knowing an archivist at the Library of Congress was the occasional access to a variety of otherwise restricted areas. This time it was the scan room, where Lashay had been digitizing old posters with an oversized scanner.

“Just a little personal project,” said Lashay, her gloved hands flattening a weathered sheet of canvas on the scan bed. “I'm actually supposed to be scanning some phone book from 1932. But this is so much more important. It actually says something about us as a culture.”

As the machine began to scan its document with a low buzzing sound, Lashay held up the next poster in line so Mira could see the print. Backgrounded in white was a small black silhouette of a bomb. Circling it was a red circle with a cross through the middle. Next to that was a circled “A” with no cross.

“I found these on eBay,” Lashay said, smiling like a child who with a new toy. “They're from the mid-seventies when some members of the Clamshell Alliance spoke at Berkeley. Anti-nuclear stuff, obviously.”

Lashay had been on an anarchist kick ever since Mira had first met her, which was back in their slightly pot-hazed undergrad days at GWU. She remembered it was Lashay's anarchy "A" wrist tattoo that first caught her attention during an elective Hegelian philosophy class. A few days later, Mira would watch her future anarchist friend climb up the campus statue of George Washington, bull-horn in hand, to give an impassioned speech against paternalism from her seat on the first president's shoulders. She found it amusing that her friend went from an undergrad of rebellion and pot smoke to a job of name badges and security clearances.

“I thought you were trying to take a break from all that,” Mira said as she flipped idly through a small stack of already-scanned artwork.

“From what? Collecting posters?” Lashay switched out a new poster and began the process all over again – aligning the document, pressing through various settings on the touch-display, and then watching her digitized image arrive in vertical bars on a nearby computer monitor. “I'm scanning them for inclusion in the archive as important cultural artifacts. It's a vital service to the country.”

“Scanning is one thing,” said Mira. “Printing and distributing is another.”

“And that's what I'm taking a break from,” said Lashay, who had a habit of using government resources to print and circulate anti-establishment manifestos. “But I'll always be an anarchist.”

“An anarchist archivist,” said Mira as she pulled her hand out of the poster pile. “Will you always be an oxymoron?”

“Will you always be a faceless bureaucratic stooge? A translator of terror for an imperialist senator?”

“Maybe not for much longer.” Mira walked away from the stack of posters, no longer interested in their political messages. She had enough injustice to worry about.

“You're quitting?” asked Lashay.

“Or getting fired, because I just can't…I can't do the work anymore.” Mira collapsed into a leather office chair which faced an over-sized computer monitor. Sick of looking at monitors, she swiveled the chair away. “So, I guess something has to give.”

It had only been two days since her discovery. The first day she went home "sick." And today she was taking an extra long lunch break, which at this rate might be her last.

Lashay walked to a set of metal drawers on the other side of the small room. “I found some reading material for you,” she said, opening a drawer and pulling out a thin paperback. “In case you suddenly have a lot of free time on your hands.” She handed the book to Mira.

Triumphant Gamble: My Early Politics.

The book had a solid green cover with no images. Although its aesthetics dated the book at least 30 years, it looked brand new. No dog ears. No spine crease. No signs of it being read.

“It's by your favorite author,” said Lashay.

Mira's eyes traveled to the text at the bottom edge of the book.

William D. Langhorne.

It sparked pain in Mira's chest.

“I can loan it out for you if you want.”

Another perk of knowing a Library of Congress librarian.

Mira turned the book over, finding that it only contained two things: a barcode and a black and white photo of the Senator on safari to some vast African grassland. He wore a wide-brimmed hat, baggy khakis, and the beady-eyed smile of a degenerate who'd just killed something. A shotgun rested in his hands. A dead buffalo slumped at his feet. “What the hell is this?”

“A memoir,” said Lashay. “From 1986.”

Mira opened the book and flipped through the first few pages.

“I read through a little of it.” Lashay returned to her scanner and prepared the next document, her practiced hands moving without her breaking eye contact with Mira. “It's pretty embarrassing. Like a big pat on the back. He talks about the family business, too. One of the early chapters. I thought it might be useful, or at least interesting.”

“Lashay, it's both. Thank you so much.”

“Wait till you see chapter six.”

Mira scanned the table of contents.