Heat pooled in his palms and rolled outward like breath. In seconds, the chill in the room shifted to clean warmth. The women near the doorway made small sounds and pressed closer to the heat as if touch might be allowed.
He let them feel it for a count of five and then closed his hands into fists.
This was how he won G Street.
Not with speeches.
With warmth.
Back when the flood swallowed the lower blocks, he had been driving the truck, trying frantically to find Zubair and the others. The water had picked it up and smashed it into the concrete support pillars of the front of the building.
To this day, he could still hear that sound in his dreams at night. The front end folded. The column cracked. The building shuddered before listing forward, helped by the water.
And the world came apart.
Water punched through the lobby like a fist through paper.
