TITLE: The space taken up by silence 
A story for the Writing Sound challenge. Spoilers up to and 
including Arctic Radar

Summary:  "She closes her ears." 


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Her former colleague didn't understand her when she said that 
public relations was, "quiet, compared to this."

"Compared to Hollywood? Are you crazy?" he laughed, distance 
distorting his voice just slightly, stretching across the 
continent from coast to coast. It was too hard to explain. 

Some days she misses the silence. Every day she misses being alone. 

It's the radio that wakes her, but in the fifteen minutes it takes 
her to get from mostly conscious to actually in the shower she 
turns on two television sets and starts the coffee. She leaves the 
bathroom door open hoping the mirror won't fog, listens to NPR as 
she attempts to scald the stiffness out of her muscles. 

Fourteen steps from the elevator to her car park space. She slides 
behind the wheel in time for the headlines. 

Four televisions, two phone lines and an assistant with the latest 
wires. By the time she hits her first briefing she's heard half a 
dozen people tell her more or less the same thing. She listens for 
something different. 

-- Katie, then Chris. 

She splits her attention, two questions ahead. Watching the room 
carefully. There's an earpiece in her ear, two aides whispering at 
the side of the room, and she's trying to hear what the AP 
reporter's saying to the woman on his left. 

She makes a mental note to ask Joey how hard it is to read lips. 

--That's all for now, I'll see you at noon. 

Checking her voicemail ("Enter your pin, then press..."), she jots 
notes on a pad as Sam-on-the-phone turns into Sam at her door 
asking, "You got a minute?" 

Her team gathers in her office to start the day. Questions two at 
a time, four at a time. No better than her press corps. Key pieces 
of information hide among the speculation. It's her job to weed 
them out, farm them out. The volume notches up a level, she finds 
herself bellowing, "Carol!" 

Volume conveys urgency. Except when it's Josh. 

-- That will be covered in the briefing by State. Andy? 

During the day the White House is a menagerie. She keeps her time 
in the bullpens to a minimum, wonders how someone like Donna 
concentrates over the constant drone of fax machines, pagers, 
phones, and people. 

So many people. 

It's no better in her office. The West Wing's walls are thin, 
suffering from constant repartitioning, as each administration 
needs more space. She hears Josh on the phone arguing, winces when 
his receiver slams. 

-- I'll deal with that at four o'clock. Mike? 

And there are certain sounds she'	s attuned to, hears without 
noticing. The unmistakable rapid-fire of photoflashes, her name 
called out by twenty voices, the networks' signature music for 
breaking news. 

Gunshots. 

Even late at night, phones on speaker send faraway voices on 
conference calls floating out in to the corridors. Fast food 
orders are shouted out to passers-by. Security guards' radios 
chatter. There's an intern wearing headphones and singing at the 
Xerox machine. 

There's no-one standing guard outside her door. 

-- I have nothing for you on that. One more question? 

Leo’s on her cell phone even as she’s walking out the door. A horn 
blares at her as she turns too slowly. The road is slick, and he’s 
reeling off facts she needs to retain. She lifts one hand off the 
wheel to rub at her eyes. 

She avoids glancing at the clock as she's sliding in to bed, 
stretching for the remote to the silence the television on the 
dresser. She pauses for a moment, doesn't look at the footage 
she’s seen all day of red hair whipping slightly in the January 
cold, hears only the voice saying, "my ex-husband, Toby 
Ziegler..." 

She turns the set off.