"Because I spent eight years in human rights law watching the same problems come through my office every year," she said. "Same problems, different people. Displacement, water, land, access to school. And I kept thinking: these problems have solutions. The solutions exist. They're not implemented because the people who could implement them aren't interested enough. I got tired of watching from the legal side. I wanted to be in the room where the decisions were made."
"And are you?" he said. "In the room where decisions are made?"
"Not yet," she said. "If I win this seat, I will be."
"If," he said.
"When," she corrected. She said it with the flat certainty she used in cross-examination — not performance, just the statement of what was going to happen.
He almost smiled. It was very close to a smile — the corner of his mouth, the specific movement that was not quite a smile but contained all the elements of one. "When," he said. "And I will give you the hardest possible campaign in the time remaining to make sure you earn it."
"Good," she said. "I'd prefer to win it properly."
He stood up. He rinsed his cup. He looked at her one more time — the look that she was also beginning to catalogue, the look that was not the face, not the controlled political surface, but something under it that was faster and less managed, the look of a person rather than a candidate.
"Get some sleep," he said. "You have Ward 14 at six-thirty."
"So do you," she said. She knew his schedule. She knew his schedule because their teams shared the same walls and schedules were not quiet.
"So do I," he said. He went to his room. She sat in the kitchen for a few more minutes, in the late-night quiet, and thought about what she had just told him and what he had just told her, and the ease of it — the specific ease of telling the truth to someone who was going to hear it without using it as a weapon.
That was a quality she had not encountered many times in her life, and she found it, now that she was tired and her filters were down, deeply dangerous.