Page 1 of Evolved

1|Knox Silva

OTTILIE

When Yorke was still in Germany

and Frankie was painting in her studio,

pretending the world wasn’t on viral fire

FACE MASKS, EAR COVERINGS, GLOVES,plastic shield, and a hospital gown wrapped around me like a shield, I stand ten feet behind the lone tech guy assigned to handle the first broadcast of my grandmother, Viola Wagner. Until a few hours ago, when the president who was elected at the top of the ticket went into a coma.

She is now the acting President of the United States of America.

This is her first address to the American people.

I always imagined a series of fiery debates, earnest interviews, carefully rehearsed speeches, a race of strategies and rallies and appeals to the American public—not a sick man ceding the office on the advancing tides of a catastrophic plague.

But here we are, amid rising death tolls, nightmare footage the globe wide, and me scrambling to write this speech, the most important of my life, hoping it can make a difference.

I hold my breath now, every muscle tight with anticipation.

So much has gone into it, laboring and lingering over every sentence, and it’s out of my hands now.

Words, no matter how I finesse them, only account for about a third of a speech’s success. The speaker’s appearance, body language, the non-verbal messages they send are vital.

Gina, the last remaining member of Gran’s inner team, and I selected her outfit carefully, every single detail. Her ash-blond hair is left down, a deviation from the French twist she’s known for. It will read more informal, more comforting.

A simple strand of pearls sits around her neck, mauve lip stain, subtle eyeliner, just enough to highlight her eyes and hold viewers’ attention, concealer to minimize redness and the smudges of fatigue under her eyes, but not the grief we all feel.

The grief must show. People need to see a trace of it and know they’re not alone.

This moment, one that is fraught with emotion and fear, is a good one for the nation to have an older woman at the helm. During the war, people wanted a fighter, someone who exuded strength and even a dose of violence, but we're leaning into Gran’s image as a wise, steady grandmother who has seen everything, and has the tradition and experience to carry usforward.

Her suit jacket is a deep marine blue that smacks of tradition, power, and gravity, and behind her is the reassuring tableau of power—The Oval Office.

“My fellow Americans,” Gran begins gravely, her voice pitched just like we planned. “I greet you tonight during this … indescribable moment in human history. I know you’re scared and desperate for answers. I assure you that every official in our government is working tirelessly in your service. We humans are no strangers to disease. Epidemics have occurred in every corner of time and space since the origins of humanity. It is not without precedent that we turn our faces toward this unique foe. Together.”

She pauses, not looking away from the camera before her, letting people worldwide stop and ruminate on the wordtogetherwhile they stare atherface.

All around the Oval Office, silence is king.

Not that there are many to oppose it.

There’s Gran behind the desk, facing Clyde, the lone Tech Guy with his lights and camera, and Crandall Wrensdale, the Chief of Staff to the sick President, Gina Usbeck, Gran’s secretary, and me.

Only one other person stands within twenty yards of this room—Gran’s single remaining secret service agent, Silva Knox, who’s currently looming behind the door.

“That single word defines us beyond everything else—together—not just as a nation but as a planet,” Gran continues. “We have the brightest of minds working together, armed with a battalion of scientific knowledge that is the great sum of all learning from all humanity from all times.” Her voice grows here, a little louder, the pace a little faster as she punctuates the wordall,her earnest soft brown eyes, so much like mine, lockedon the screen, reminding viewers of wartime speeches, buckle-down sentiments, and you-can-do-this ethos. “Let usallsupport them by conducting ourselves with integrity in the face of fear.”

She smiles here.

Softly.

Not a happy smile.

A recognition smile: human to human, like she’s seeing the deepest ugliest parts of each of us and promising that it’s okay, that we can do better, that sheknowswe can.

There’s a magic to communication. Automatically, my expression has shifted to mirror hers, and I guarantee that Clyde, the Tech Guy, and Crandall Wrensdale, Gina, Knox Silva on the other side of the door, and people in homes across the country, their faces bathed in blue screen-light from their phones and computers and televisions, are mirroring it too, and hopefully finding a kernel of belief that theycando this.