Roosevelt's breath fogged faintly in the cold air of the underground corridor.
The heating in the Delaware complex was functional, more than functional, but the chill still clung to the concrete like mold.
It wasn't really cold, not like a New York winter, but the kind that seeped into a man's bones when he sat too long and carried too much.
His doctor had insisted he use the chair today; Roosevelt however, stubbornly insisted on walking.
Each step of his cane rang against the polished floor, out of rhythm with the soft roll of the wheelchair being pushed just behind him by a nervous aide.
"If you stumble, Mister President…"
"I won't," Roosevelt snapped, though his hand shook on the cane. "If the Commander-in-Chief can no longer walk from his quarters to his own war room, then we may as well surrender now and be done with it."
The aide fell silent.
