Her work is easier now, now that the everyday problems are the ones she can try to solve, not the problems like why do the Republicans obstruct bills to create more parks in urban areas out of political maneuvering and sheer spite and now that she can go to sleep at night without worrying if the next morning will be the one that someone she loves (the closest she has to a father now, the man she thinks of as her little brother, her best friend) will be shot at to further an agenda, or simply out of hate.

It is summer in New England, and CJ surveys the greenness of nature, arrayed around her just waiting to be explored.

Footsteps behind her, soft ones, then a voice, distinct in that way she knows well: "so I hear you're trying to save the world."

Abbey Bartlet will always be someone who knows how to make an entrance.

CJ turns gracefully (not at all like flamingo because they are ridiculous birds) to smile at the other person. "That is the basis of my job description, yes."

"And are you succeeding?" Abbey asks, because she is also someone who demands results.

"I don't know," CJ admits (money is a lot of things but it isn't everything, it isn't a substitute for parents or a good education or a hot meal, and even though it can get some of these things it can't get all of them and this, this is what keeps her up at night).

The woman standing next to her- short, resolute, and very possibly made of steel- clasps CJ's wrist.

"You know that Margaret Mead quote?" she asks.

CJ nods. "About a small dedicated group of people? Yeah. It's one of your husband's favorites."

Abbey lays her other hand on top of the first. "You're one of those people," she says. "Now go out there and do it."

CJ does.