The world shrinks to the dimensions of a laptop screen. For forty-eight hours, this glowing rectangle is my sun, my moon, my oracle, and my executioner’s block. Outside the window of the sterile Geneva apartment, a city of clocks and quiet money moves with detached precision. Inside, time is measured in six-hour increments and the steady, agonizing crawl of a digital countdown timer in the corner of my encrypted desktop.
On the screen, Washington D.C. is a spectacle of patriotic fervor. The cable news networks have thrown themselves into a frenzy of non-stop coverage. *The People’s Governor.* *A New Dawn for the State.* They show B-roll footage of Arthur pressing flesh at diners, his brow furrowed with performative concern. They show Eleanor, a vision in Chanel, smiling demurely from the
