A hard days work

The fluorescent lights of the converted Walmart hummed like a swarm of angry bees. First Lady Tammy-Lee Rutherford’s manicured nails dug into the armrests of her chair as she stared at her trembling assistant.

"What do you mean they’ve all cancelled?"

Her voice was low, dangerous the same tone she’d used when Hank forgot their anniversary last year. (He’d spent that night sleeping in the Lincoln Bedroom. With the dog.)

Tiffany, her mousy assistant, shrank back. "Ma’am, Mr. Johnson’s filming in Abu Dhabi, Dr. Mendez called this a ‘fascist circus,’ and Chad Brodowski is…" She swallowed. "Indisposed."

Tammy-Lee’s eye twitched. Outside, the press pool murmured restlessly. CNN’s van had been parked out there for three hours.

"Get me Secret Service," she hissed. "The tall one with the—"

The door burst open.

Cigar smoke rolled in first thick, pungent, the kind that clung to your clothes for days. Then he stepped through: Director Carl Vance, head of the Fertility Compliance Bureau. Sixty years old, built like a retired linebacker, and with a smile that made interns cry.

"That won’t work."

Tammy-Lee shot to her feet, her custom nurse’s uniform straining over her chest. "Director Vance. I didn’t realize—"

"Obviously." Vance took a long drag, exhaling toward the ceiling. "Press’ve memorized every agent’s face by now. Swap ‘em out, and this whole thing smells staged."

The First Lady’s jaw tightened. "Then what’s your solution?"

Vance didn’t answer. Instead, he strode to the window, staring past the parking lot. Something in the distance made his grin widen. He turned, leaned down, and whispered something in Tiffany’s ear.

The colour drained from the assistant’s face.

Then Vance left, the door clicking shut behind him like a guillotine.

Tammy-Lee whirled on Tiffany. "What did he say?"

Tiffany’s lips moved soundlessly before she croaked: "You—you need to go downstairs. The first donors arrive in twenty minutes."

The first lady had a sense of impending doom

The Walmart’s produce section had been transformed into a sterile nightmare. White curtains partitioned the space into "collection zones," each with a hospital bed and a small fridge. No British style glory holes here American men deserved eye contact, apparently.

Tammy-Lee’s heels clicked against the linoleum as she approached her assigned station. A Secret Service agent stood guard outside the curtain, his earpiece crackling.

"Unit 5, payload secured. No contraband. All passengers compliant."

Passengers?

She yanked the curtain aside. "What payload?"

The agent stiffened. "Ma’am, I—"

Tammy-Lee got in his face, her Chanel No. 5 clashing with his Axe body spray. "Tell me now, or I’ll have you scrubbing Marine One’s toilet with your toothbrush."

The agent swallowed. "Home Depot, ma’am."

A beat. Then—

"YOU ROUNDED UP DAY LABORERS?"

Before he could answer, the main doors slammed open. A chorus of murmurs erupted from the press:

"So brave…"

"True sacrifice…"

Then the first "donor" shuffled in.

The man was not Dwayne Johnson.

Five-foot-four, maybe. Sixty years old if he was a day. His overalls were stained with paint and something unidentifiable, his baseball cap frayed at the edges. He blinked at Tammy-Lee like a confused raccoon.

"¿Qué está pasando?"

Tammy-Lee’s smile was glass. "Up. On the bed."

No recognition.

She mimed pulling down pants.

The man crossed himself.

"Oh for—" She grabbed his overalls, yanking the zipper down. His protests dissolved into startled silence as her French-tipped nails closed around him.

It was… uninspiring.

Like holding a warm gummy worm.

But Tammy-Lee Rutherford hadn’t clawed her way to the top by being bad at anything. Two minutes later, the first sample was in the fridge, and the man was hustled out, muttering what sounded like a Hail Mary.

The curtain rustled again.

This one was different.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. A beard that could’ve been carved from mahogany. His work-roughened hands flexed at his sides as his dark eyes raked over her.

"Hola, enfermera," he purred.

Tammy-Lee’s cheeks flushed. Then she threw her hands up.

"CAN SOMEONE GET A FUCKING TRANSLATOR IN HERE?"

From the manager’s office above, Vance’s cigar glowed red in the shadows.