'More tea, Frankie?'
'Damnit, witch, let me be!'
He wheels himself over to the window, looking out at bleak and barren 1953 beyond. Born to wealth and fortune, he has inherited -- this. A convalescent existence in a retirement home for those in penury, abandoned by his family and friends, his useless withered legs merely dragging along the carpet.
It was Wilson, he reminded himself -- Wilson and his useless vendettas. Or Eleanor's vindictive, endless crusades against him. Or this, or that, or...
Regardless, here he is: paralysed, constantly riddled with heart problems and blood on the brain, penniless and without succour. He is one of nearly a hundred million Americans who inhabit such squalor, but he is -- special.
For he is Franklin Delano Roosevelt, heir to America's greatest dynasty. And he dies broken and alone in Riverview Retirement Home, utterly without distinction.