"I won’t just sign it—I’ll sign it with a gold pen! I’ll sign it faster than anyone!"
"Because my principle, Ron Smith’s principle, is that the survival of the Erie People trumps any and all bullshit partisan politics!"
His words landed like a series of heavy punches, striking everyone in the heart.
The animosity born from their political differences began to crumble in the face of the naked logic of survival.
When it ca to putting food on the table, what did ideologies matter?
As long as they could get the money back, as long as the factories could reopen, what did it matter who they worked with?
The look in the people’s eyes began to change.
Suspicion gave way to a sort of tacit approval, even a sense of longing.
They were desperate for Smith to keep up his hard-line stance, desperate for him to actually bring that money back, no matter the cost.
Smith looked at their faces and knew he had cleared this hurdle.
But he needed to stoke the flas one last ti.
He needed to transform their support, which was based on self-interest, into a loyalty forged by emotion.
He needed to make them believe he wasn’t just doing this for the money, but because he loved them and he loved this city.
Smith lowered the hand that held the cash.
His movents slowed. He began to undo the buttons of his suit.
He unbuttoned his suit jacket, took it off, and tossed it to the ground.
But he didn’t stop there.
He then unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt and rolled the sleeves high, revealing two pale, flaccid arms.
On his left forearm was a hideous, dark red scar.
The scar, like an ugly centipede, stretched from his wrist all the way to his elbow.
Smith raised his arm, showing the scar to everyone.
"I know what you’re thinking."
Smith picked up the bullhorn again.
"You think I’ve changed."
"You think the Mayor who sits in an office, wears designer suits, and signs contracts with outsiders isn’t the sa Ron Smith you once knew."
"You think I’m in cahoots with that other mayor. You think I’ve sold out my principles for money."
Smith took a step forward to the very edge of the stairs, exposing himself to the stares of thousands.
His eyes scanned the crowd, finally locking onto an old man with graying hair who was leaning on a cane.
The old man was huddled at the front of the crowd, his gaze sowhat evasive.
"Old Jack!"
Smith shouted out the na.
"What are you doing just standing there? You think I’m a traitor, too? You think I’m selling out Erie?"
The old man, Old Jack, trembled. He lifted his head, a flicker of panic in his cloudy eyes.
"Look at !"
Smith roared.
"Twenty-five years ago... that fire at the Erie Chemical Plant. Do you rember?"
Old Jack’s body shook violently.
Of course he rembered.
It was the most tragic disaster in the history of Erie City, a wound that would never heal for the people of Erie.
That night, the flas lit up half the sky as toxic fus filled the streets.
He had been trapped in the control room, choking on thick smoke until he could barely breathe. A ceiling beam had cracked above his head, and the shadow of death had lood over him.
"Back then, the fire departnt hadn’t arrived yet."
Smith pointed to the scar on his arm.
"Who was it that rushed in?"
"Who kicked down that iron door, already glowing red from the heat?"
"Who carried you out of that inferno on his back?"
"This scar! I got it from a falling, red-hot pipe!"
"The doctor said if it had been half an inch deeper, this arm would’ve been useless! I’d never have been able to sign my na again, never have been able to hold my child again!"
Old Jack’s eyes instantly reddened.
He looked at the disheveled Mayor on the stage, at the man holding up his scarred arm.
The mories overlapped.
The night of the fire, twenty-five years ago. A younger Ron Smith, not yet mayor, his face black with soot, had carried him out of the inferno on his back. He’d placed him in the ambulance and, panting for breath, said, "It’s all right, old friend. We made it out alive."
Back then, Smith wasn’t doing it for votes. He wasn’t putting on a show.
He was just saving a neighbor.
"Was I trying to get votes then?" Smith demanded. "Was I trying to line my own pockets? Did I make so political deal with anyone?"
Old Jack shook his head frantically, a sob catching in his throat. "No... Ron. You saved my life. You’re a hero."
Smith didn’t stop.
His gaze turned to a middle-aged woman on the other side of the crowd.
The woman wore a faded old coat and clutched an empty envelope in her hand. Her eyes were filled with misery.
"Mary."
Smith called out her na.
"Last year, your grandson got into the state university. But your son’s worker’s compensation was held up, and your family couldn’t even scrape together the money for his travel expenses."
"You ca to City Hall looking for , and you stood outside my office crying."
"What did I do then?"
"Did I use public funds? Did I make you fill out those damn application forms? Did I make you go through months of red tape?"
Mary covered her mouth, tears streaming through her fingers.
"No."
Smith answered his own question.
"I withdrew five thousand dollars from my own account and pressed it into your hand."
"I told you, ’Take this for your grandson’s tuition. Consider it a loan. Pay back whenever you can.’"
"I didn’t even ask you to sign an IOU."
"Because I know that for us Erie People, our word is our bond. We never go back on a debt."
Smith’s gaze swept over the crowd in the square.
He saw so many familiar faces.
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