Leo drove aimlessly through the streets.
He had just escaped from that suffocating underground archive room.
His tires humd monotonously over the wet asphalt.
Before he knew it, the scenery around him had changed.
The towering, glass-walled office buildings vanished. In their place were low, red-brick houses, cheap bars with neon signs, and the walls of abandoned factories.
Leo hit the brakes, stopping the car at an intersection.
He looked up and saw a familiar set of doors.
The Steel Worker Community Center.
It was where he had gotten his start, the cradle of his political career.
Leo’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. He didn’t get out of the car.
Staring at the doors through his windshield, he was overco by a powerful urge to flee.
He was afraid to go inside.
A few months ago, he had been a hero here.
It was here that he had sworn to fight the oligarchs, protect the interests of the workers, and take Pittsburgh back from the capitalists.
The workers had believed him, hoisting him onto their shoulders and carrying him to City Hall.
And now?
The internet was flooded with articles accusing him of being a traitor, a Judas.
At the Carnegie Library auditorium, the students had turned completely against him. The business owners stood by with folded arms, watching coldly. Only the workers had seed to remain on his side.
But as days passed and the public outcry grew louder, he had no idea how the workers’ sentints might have shifted.
He’d had to sell the port to Morganfield for a five-hundred-million-dollar bond for the revitalization plan.
But in the eyes of these salt-of-the-earth workers, this was probably the most blatant form of betrayal.
He was afraid to see the disappointnt in Frank’s eyes, afraid to see the people who had once cheered for him now staring at him with indifference, or even hatred.
"What? Scared to get out of the car now?"
Roosevelt’s voice echoed in his mind.
"You spent nights on end in that dusty basent, digging through files, trying to find a legal lifeline for yourself. Now the path is right at your feet, yet you’re afraid to take the first step?"
"I just... I don’t want to face them," Leo murmured. "At least, not right now. I haven’t won the lawsuit yet. I haven’t proven that my choice was the right one."
"You can never prove to everyone that you’re right, Leo."
Roosevelt’s tone turned serious.
"But you must face the people who put you in this position."
"If you don’t even have the courage to face them, then you don’t deserve to face questioning in court, nor do you deserve to go to Washington and take on those man-eating politicians."
"Get out of the car."
"Go see them. Go see the real Pittsburgh."
Leo took a deep breath.
He pushed open the car door, smoothed out the suit that had beco rumpled from his all-nighters, and strode toward the main doors.
He placed his hand on the door handle, paused for a mont, and then pushed it open forcefully.
CREAK—
A wave of heat washed over him.
The hall had been noisy, filled with dozens of n in work clothes eating breakfast, loudly discussing last night’s ga or complaining about the goddamn weather.
But the mont Leo walked in, all the noise vanished.
It was as if soone had hit a mute button.
Dozens of pairs of eyes swiveled in unison to focus on the young man at the door.
Leo stood there, feeling an invisible pressure weigh down on him.
He subconsciously tugged at his collar.
No one spoke.
No one said hello.
Leo’s gaze swept across the familiar faces.
He saw George, holding half a sandwich, his mouth slightly agape.
He saw David, a coffee cup in his hand and a complicated look in his eyes.
They had all seen the news.
They all knew about the port franchise.
Leo opened his mouth, wanting to say sothing, to explain, to tell them how important that five hundred million US Dollars was.
But no sound ca out.
In the face of their honest stares, any political rhetoric seed pale and powerless.
In the midst of this suffocating silence, a strange sound broke through.
SQUEAK—SQUEAK—
It was the sound of wheels rolling across the wooden floor.
A wheelchair slowly erged from the direction of the back kitchen.
Margaret sat in the wheelchair, her hair combed neatly, strands of silver glinting under the lights.
She held a large plate in her lap, piled high with freshly baked blueberry muffins that were still steaming and giving off an enticingly sweet aroma.
Margaret wheeled herself over in front of Leo.
She looked up at the young Mayor before her, his face weary, his eyes bloodshot, his chin covered in stubble.
Leo lowered his head, unable to et her gaze.
She was the person toward whom he felt the most guilt.
The one who had paid a terrible price for his campaign.
If she, too, called him a traitor, Leo felt he might shatter on the spot.
"What are you doing just standing there like a fool?"
Margaret spoke up.
"Leo, you look like a holess man. Haven’t had breakfast, have you?"
Leo was stunned.
He looked up and saw the familiar smile on Margaret’s face.
"Here, take one."
Margaret pushed the plate toward Leo.
"Fresh from the oven. Blueberry. You should eat it while it’s hot."
With a trembling hand, Leo reached out and took a muffin.
The edges of the muffin were baked to a perfect golden-brown, giving off an invitingly sweet aroma.
In the past, whether after a campaign event or just passing by, he would go out of his way to co in and have one.
Back then, that flavor represented the warmth of being among his own people.
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