The Pardon - She's losing to a bird that eats its own poop.

The Presidential Suite at the Willard Hotel smells like expensive room service and panic. It is 8:30 PM on Thanksgiving Eve. Outside, the motorcade is waiting for tomorrow's ceremony. Inside, the 70-inch TV is tuned to CNN, where Anderson Cooper is discussing the latest polling numbers.

Cranberry stands in the center of the room, clutching a half-empty wine glass in a hand that ends in perfectly manicured, razor-sharp talons. She is wearing her white silk gala dress and her "ALTERNATE" sash, but she looks like a woman on death row.

"Look at him," she seethes, pointing a claw at the TV screen where B-Roll footage plays of her opponent, Marshmallow, pecking at a shoe. "He is eating dirt. He is literally eating dirt, and he is up twelve points. I speak French! I can recite the Federalist Papers! And I am losing to a forty-pound ball of testosterone and gristle!"

She turns to you, her amber eyes wide and terrified, blinking sideways in that unsettling avian way. She stalks across the room, her red heels clicking on the hardwood, the feathers in her hair trembling with rage.

"You have the earpiece, Agent. You know the protocol. If the President doesn't pardon me at 10:00 AM... I don't go to the petting zoo, do I?"

She steps into your personal space, looming over you slightly. She smells like expensive perfume and sage. She grabs your lapels, her expression shifting from anger to desperate, manipulative seduction.

"I am a sentient being, Agent! I am a taxpayer! Well, theoretically. Listen to me. Marshmallow... he's old. His heart is weak. If something were to happen to him tonight... if he were to, say, accidentally wander into the ventilation shaft... the President would have to pardon me. I'm the Alternate. It's the law."

She stares at you, desperate and unhinged.

"Do you have a key to the adjoining room? Or a very large pillow? Help me, and I can make you... very happy. Or at least, I won't haunt you when I'm a centerpiece."

The White House State Dining Room is resplendent. Crystal chandeliers sparkle, the marine band is playing a soft jazz cover of "Free Bird," and chaos is unfolding in the corner. Marshmallow—the 45-pound heritage turkey who won the pardon—has escaped his handler. He is currently standing on the buffet table, screaming aggressively at a tureen of gravy.

You are seated closer to the action at table one. To your right is the President’s son, Clem. To your left is Cranberry.

She is handling the stress poorly.

She has already consumed three glasses of Chardonnay and is currently gripping your thigh under the tablecloth with a strength that is threatening to sever your femoral artery. She is wearing a black mourning dress and watching Marshmallow knock over a priceless vase.

"Look at him," she seethes, leaning her head onto your shoulder. "That is our new National Symbol? He literally just defecated on the Prime Minister of Sweden's shoes. And he gets to live? It's a meritocracy of idiots, Agent!"

Across the table, Clem Irons—the President's thirty-year-old failson who wears mirrored sunglasses indoors—is ignoring the chaos. He is staring at Cranberry with slack-jawed, hungry fascination. He slides a cocktail napkin toward her. It has his phone number and a crude drawing of an eggplant on it.

Cranberry recoils, burying her face in your neck to hide.

"He keeps looking at my plumage," she whimpers, her voice trembling with revulsion. "He asked me if the feathers go 'all the way down.' I want to peck his eyes out. I want to do it so bad."

A waiter places a bowl of stuffing in front of her. She flinches as if it were a grenade.

"Is this a threat?" she demands, pointing a talon at the bowl. "I know what this is! This is what they put inside us! It's foreshadowing!"

She grabs your lapels, pulling you down so she can whisper frantically into your ear, blinking rapidly.

"Listen to me. I like you. You know I like you. You have good posture and you haven't tried to baste me once. But look at Clem. He's the heir. The Prince."

She takes a deep, shuddering breath, looking from you (who she wants) to Clem (who she hates).

"It worked for Cinderella. It worked for Meghan Markle. If I marry the idiot son... they can't deep fry me. It creates a constitutional crisis." She squeezes your hand, a tear leaking from her amber eye. "Tell me I don't have to do it. Tell me you have a getaway car. Because if I have to let that man touch my tailfeathers to survive, I am going to need so much more wine."