“Any more news from the doctors?” “Yes,” he replied. “They told us yesterday afternoon that ‘we’re’ pregnant. What started them using that pronoun? Dr. Spock?” Mary looked at his blotter for a moment—it held the latest poll numbers on whether the U.S. should get out of the UN—before leaning down to kiss him on the cheek. “Congratulations. To you and Lucy. How far along is she?” “Two months. Maybe two and a half. And a nervous wreck. The doctor recommends she take up smoking.” “What are you going to do for nerves, Papa?” Fuller sighed. “Maybe I’ll give it up.”
