In Pittsburgh, the May weather had already turned warm.
A rare quiet settled over the Mayor's Office on the third floor of City Hall.
There were no unfolding crises, no angry crowds blockading the entrance, and no shrill, ringing phones.
Only one sound filled the room.
"SCRATCH, SCRATCH."
It was the sound of a pen nib scratching rapidly across paper.
Leo Wallace sat behind his desk, dressed in a well-tailored dark shirt. The top button was undone, and the cuffs were neatly rolled up to his elbows.
A mountain of files was stacked to his left.
They were requests, budget approvals, personnel transfer orders, and all sorts of administrative contracts from over twenty different city departments.
Six months ago, the sight of this paper avalanche—enough to bury a man alive—would have made Leo feel like he was suffocating.
