There had been a time when Jim was not the senator, not the governor, not the President. Outside the window, the sky was a flat, endless blue above sand and curling waves that  moved in and out, daily and forever. Marine One had flown the family for this vacation, and now the weekend was over. Three birds kited on the winds. To a child it would seem as if the birds were delighting in freedom and skill, but Jim supposed the birds were constantly circling for crabs and small fish. The gulls screeched. When he was a child he put his arms out straight from his shoulders as if to fly. His grandfather had taken him to Gull Lake and thrown breadcrumbs on the water. When the gulls flocked to the bread, his grandfather aimed his shotgun at the hungry creatures, the crack of the shotgun staying in Jim’s memory. “Don’t like those dirty birds,” his grandfather muttered.