When Roosevelt's voice spoke that word in Leo's mind, all the grand blueprints, the historical tableaus, and the rousing declarations faded away in an instant.
Leo's consciousness plummeted from that magnificent future war against the entire ruling class of the United States, crashing back down into his own exhausted, corporeal shell.
He looked down at his hands.
They were hands made gaunt by long-term malnutrition and a lack of exercise.
His knuckles were prominent, his skin pale, his wrists so thin they looked as if they would snap in two.
The most practiced motions these hands knew were typing furious words on a keyboard or carrying plates in a coffee shop.
These were definitely not hands that could shake the world.
His gaze then fell to his feet.
The pair of Converse sneakers he had worn for three whole years, their edges now frayed and cracked.
The laces were grimy, and the rubber soles had been worn nearly smooth.
These shoes could hardly even carry him on the walk to find his next minimum-wage job.
"Me?"
A dry, self-deprecating laugh escaped Leo's throat, sounding exceptionally harsh in the silent library.
"Mr. President, you see it now. The final scene of the movie... is me. A loser who can barely pay his rent and can't even find a job. A keyboard warrior who types a few lines online only to be collectively silenced by the entire system."
He held out his own powerless hands to the empty space before him.
"How could I possibly accomplish everything you've described?"
This was reality.
A grand revolutionary blueprint ultimately had to be carried out by a real person.
And this person, at this very moment, had nothing.
The voice in his mind fell silent for a moment.
When Roosevelt spoke again, the authority, anger, and resolve in his voice were gone, replaced by a gentle strength.
The voice seemed to transcend time and space, returning to the moments he sat before the fireplace in the White House, delivering his "fireside chats" to the American people over the radio waves.
"No, my boy, you're wrong. You only see yourself as you are now."
"But I see the man you will become."
Roosevelt's voice carried a hint of self-deprecating resignation. "I possess the greatest political cunning in this nation's history. I know how to deliver speeches that inspire the masses, how to negotiate to dismantle my opponents, how to divide my enemies and unite every possible ally... But now, all of that is nothing more than the restless spirit of an unwilling ghost, a collection of memories trapped inside your head."
"I can't pick up a phone to persuade a wavering congressman. I can't sign a document to enact a new law. I can't even extend my hand and shake yours like a normal person."
"But you... you have the ability to act." Roosevelt's tone shifted, suddenly filled with power. "You may be poor, but you understand the rules and tools of this twenty-first century. In your heart, you carry the same inextinguishable flame that I do. You are filled with righteous anger and ideals, but you don't know how to open the first door."
In that moment, Roosevelt's voice was filled with sincerity as he extended an invitation to Leo.
"Leo Wallace, lend me your hands and your feet."
"And I, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, will lend you my mind and my experience."
"Let us fight side by side to accomplish a task unprecedented in history, one whose like will never be seen again—"
"—to build, in the very heart of capitalism, a nation that truly belongs to the people."
Those words, like a bolt of lightning tearing across the sky, instantly shattered all the self-loathing, confusion, fear, and despair in Leo's heart.
He was no longer the loser crushed by the system.
He was no longer the isolated, helpless keyboard warrior.
He was no longer the young man buried under a mountain of debt.
He was a partner to history.
He was the agent of revolution.
He was the hands and feet chosen by Franklin Roosevelt.
Leo Wallace shot up from his chair.
His chest heaved, and his eyes burned with a light he'd never known.
He surveyed the empty library archives, a room that stored the countless motes of historical dust.
Then, facing the empty air before him, he solemnly and firmly extended his right hand.
He was joining hands with a great ghost, an immortal will, in a handshake that, though unwitnessed, would surely shake the entire world.
Leo's outstretched right hand hovered in the empty air of the library archives.
There was no physical sensation, but in the world of his mind, a large, warm, dry, and powerful hand gripped his own tightly.
It was a hand filled with a power that felt as if it could hold the destiny of a nation in its palm.
An alliance that transcended life and death was formally established in that unwitnessed silence.
He solemnly withdrew his hand and sat back down on the cold chair.
A few minutes ago, this chair had represented his hopeless life. Now, it had become the command seat for a voyage about to begin.
The exhilarating feeling that had shot through him like a bolt of lightning slowly subsided.
As the adrenaline faded, a cold, practical question surfaced in his mind.
"We..."
He began to speak, his voice still a little hoarse, but it no longer held its earlier confusion or self-deprecation.
"How do we start?"
'Yes, how do we start? Declare war on the entire ruling class? Establish a true nation for the people?'
'These goals are too grand, as remote as distant stars—visible, yet with no clear path to reach them.'
In his mind, Roosevelt's voice chuckled softly.
It was a laugh brimming with the confidence of a man in complete control.
"We're not going to storm the White House tomorrow, my boy," he said cheerfully. "Nor are we going to run to Wall Street and hand out flyers, reciting our Second Bill of Rights to the bankers. That's child's play, not a revolution."
"Remember this, Leo: Rome wasn't built in a day. But just as importantly, it didn't start in the Roman Square at its center. It began on the banks of the Tiber River, with a few muddy little villages."
"What we must do is start in the worst of places. In the corners forgotten by this entire country, we will light the first fire—a fire bright enough for everyone to see."
Roosevelt's voice paused. Then, he spoke a name.
"We'll start right here. In Pittsburgh."
"A city completely enveloped in rust and despair. A place filled with unemployed workers, broken families, and abandoned factories. A perfect starting point."
Leo was stunned.
'Pittsburgh?'
"What can we even do in Pittsburgh?" His first reaction was to think of the traditional forms of protest. "Organize a strike for the unemployed steelworkers? Keep writing articles online exposing local issues?"
"No." Roosevelt rejected the idea outright. "That's too slow and too weak. Public opinion is like water; it can carry a boat, but it can also capsize it. But until we have a boat of our own, it doesn't matter how vast the ocean is. It has nothing to do with us."
"We must seize power. Even the most insignificant, grassroots power. That will be our first lever, the first platform that will allow us to put all these blueprints into practice."
Leo's heart began to beat inexplicably faster. He had a faint premonition that a truly insane idea was about to be proposed.
"Your first objective, Leo."
Roosevelt's voice carried an unquestionable authority.
"—Run to be the next Mayor of Pittsburgh."
"The Mayor of Pittsburgh?"
Leo thought he must have misheard.
The idea was ten thousand times more insane than the fact that he had a dead President living in his head.
'Mayor? Me? A history major dropout in my twenties, one hundred and thirty thousand dollars in debt, and freshly unemployed?'
He immediately wanted to argue, to shout out a hundred reasons why it was impossible.
He had no money, no connections, and no political experience. He didn't even own a decent suit.
But before he could open his mouth, Roosevelt's voice, brimming with absolute confidence, had already anticipated and answered all of his unspoken objections.
"Yes. The Mayor."
"Don't worry, my boy."
"Starting today, your campaign manager is Franklin Delano Roosevelt."
"We... will not lose."