The Lost Canaries

Chapter 13: The Next Great American Renaissance

CHAPTER THIRTEEN – DENBRIGHT

THE NEXT GREAT AMERICAN RENAISSANCE

An irritating gaggle of public relations officers, mostly Fiona and her usual assistants, crowd around the Director's desk. But I just stare out the window as they discuss our plan to address the fallout from the bombing. My eyes fixate on the blast site and fog surrounding the Colosseum.

"You have to respond..."

"The second lockdown won't hold for long. The refugees' riots will only grow worse..."

"We can minimize the damage if we frame you as the victim."

A fiery impulse courses through me, and suddenly I slam my fist on the desk. The crowd silences. "Everyone... out...." I hiss. "And take these with you!" I toss back the speech drafts. My staff's eyes widen, and then they scramble to exit the office.

Alone atop the glass tower, every instinct tells me to smash my computer. Or throw something against the window. Not losing my head takes every ounce of self-control I have. Because whatever I do in the next twenty-four hours, I have to do absolutely right.

"This is never going to stop, Michael. Not like this..." I whisper into the silence.

As a torrential rain pounds against the stained-glass windows, I turn to my computer and pull up a blank document, but something immediately feels wrong. So I grab a stack of paper and pluck a pen from the cup on my desk. Staring down at this blank page is harder than completing any intelligence report. How do I write a speech that a young, hopeless Michael Rhodes—and millions today just like him, thousands right here at this base—could have rallied behind? How do I give that rousing address only the most transformative leaders have ever pulled off? The Abraham Lincolns? The Susan B. Anthonys? The Martin Luther Kings? The leaders tasked with uniting a population desperate to destroy itself?

But Michael Rhodes has trailblazed a worldview even the Red Doves' victims can follow with the proper disillusionment. If past tyrants can sink nations on false pretenses and scapegoats, Michael can certainly tear us apart on valid criticisms. This war will not be won with weapons alone, but with hearts and minds. I just hope my counterargument is enough to paint people's bleeding feathers white again.

No lack of self-validation can stand in the way of something much bigger. My inability to lead effectively and satisfy my constituents has cost children their lives. I have always had the credentials and experience, but something I cannot be taught is that indescribable quality leaders must have. Whatever strength or madness I have had locked inside me all these years has to come out now. Or CANARY doesn't stand a chance in easing the chaos to make meaningful steps toward finding the Red Doves.

So, I put pen to paper, ready to actually speak to my people for the very first time....

* * *

After spending a night asleep at my desk, I rise early to prep for the speech on my own without Fiona's stylists. When I pull on a copy of A Refugee's Guide to CANARY, the office bookshelf swings open to reveal my bedroom. I march toward my closet and pull down a dusty bin from the top shelf. Inside is an embroidered tulle evening dress with blossoming pink flowers stitched across the fabric, matched with a rosy hijab. I drape Tallulah Jane Denbright's favorite holiday dress over my shoulders and stare at the picture of my parents on my nightstand. I am a dead ringer for my mother, but the similarities stop there. Her ruthless eyes that have not seen the sun in years pierce into me from the photo. My mother was the epitome of tough love; I would not have been as motivated in my CIA career without her consistent, sometimes cruel, insistence on my succeeding. Now Mom eyes me down from a past life as if urging me to follow my more assertive instincts today.