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When the Big Chief rolls to a stop at the front of the line, the president pushes open his armored door and steps down from the truck to a smattering of mitten-muffled applause. Buzz guides him to the folding tables under the tent near the front door. The president tries to smile in the sunlight, but it's clearly blinding his raw eyes. He's almost closing them to hide the redness. It's hard to tell if people are happy to see him or if they know they'll be getting their per capita checks shortly, but we'll tamp down our doubts and ride any goodwill as far as it will take us.

There was a protest here as recently as an hour ago. I had to call up Bobby to move them along as politely as possible so they wouldn't sour the good mood. It was nothing serious, just ten or so disgruntled Passage Rouge citizens shuffling listless circles around a drum. Bobby and his boys told them to take it on to the back of the Government Center, which they did. No blood was shed and no feelings were hurt, but we know they're still there with their drum and their resentments. We just can't hear them over the noise of our people, eagerly chatting and waiting on their per capita checks.

At the appointed time, just when that eager commotion threatens to turn salty, Bobby escorts the first people in line to the folding tables, and as they file past us, we hand out turkey dinners in Styrofoam clamshells to our people. The president, standing tall with his flat-brimmed cap askew, lording over the asphalt tundra like a mountain, beckons our people toward their bounty of dry turkey breast and wild rice stuffing. I work the back line, handing the president boxes. Birdie Johns—one of the aunties who runs the painstaking, mundane business of the tribe—sits at a folding table in her parka, marks off names on her list, and hands out checks from a metal cashbox.

This is the kind of event that brings out the best in the president. Face-to-face with our people. He likes playing the nice guy. I don't know, maybe he really is nice. A little late in the game, sure, but we're doing something unambiguously good, which is a goddamn miracle in tribal politics. Never mind the squad cars and the surplus armored vehicle, the MRAP, lined up on the street, or Bobby Lone Eagle and the rest of Passage Rouge's finest in riot gear, checking IDs for bench warrants, hassling anybody who looks like they've drifted over from the sad protest going on in the back.

But just as I'm starting to feel good, a stiff wind whips up all the way over from Ogema Lake, blowing a glassy mist across the casino parking lot and lobbing tiny shards of ice over Peace Pipe, stinging my face. I turn my head away from the mist, and I see them, the people of Passage Rouge all lined up down Peace Pipe, laughing and happy, about to be flush with per cap money, and the sight makes me slump to the pavement and prop myself up against the brick wall of the Government Center. My arms and legs are seizing up. The voices and the laughter and holiday cheer fade as a tremor travels down my spine and settles in the area around my heart. Nobody seems to notice, though, and the gold-uniformed casino workers who have been dragooned into this volunteer work pick up my slack. But Mack knows. He glances at me and sees me sitting against the wall, with a slight look of—what? Contempt? Ridicule? But before anyone else notices, he quickly turns and beams that ursine friendly smile on the people in line, and I slowly reclaim my limbs and go back to handing him boxed meals and pretending that everything is fine. Weakness is a bad look this late in an election, especially one that we're already losing, and if he senses my weakness, he will begin to doubt. We jet when the line starts spacing out, a tactical retreat before we're the last ones left in the parking lot. Mack waves both of his arms over his head to say good-bye to them, and there's a muted applause as Bobby pulls the Big Chief up and beeps the truck horn. We all climb in. We're going back to the Golden Eagle.

Buzz pats him on the shoulder from the back seat. "I tried to tell you, son," he says, "the Santa suit would have been a big hit."

But the president is not in the mood to joke around. He's silent on the drive back, and I can't tell if he's fuming over the waste of his time and resources, or the pomposity of our entrance with the Chief. Either way, he's blaming me. I told him to do it. I told him it was a good look. Now it feels ridiculous and foolish.

We drive around to the back of the hotel complex, park at the service doors, and climb down from the Chief. Mack resumes his early-morning hangover posture, carefully lurching forward to keep his head steady. Buzz gives me a wary look, and I follow him in. Sometimes taking the service route cheers up the president. Seeing the cashiers with their boxes going in and out of the cage, or soaking up the factory-like atmosphere of dealers and servers and pit bosses and shift supervisors reassures him of a reality that we've both invested time and resources in to ensure our political survival: that he and he alone is in command of this domain.

The truth is that in five days, Passage Rouge is going to vote. It's my job to move a small but significant number of defectors back to our side. Checks and warm meals and goodwill might bring a few dozen back our way, but the rest will have to come from somewhere else, by means that he can't be too aware of.

Things that only I can do.