She is licking an ice cream cone and eyeing the two men with some discomfort. Tomorrow there'll be more junk hanging off it. The curators, both 49, are here to gather the tangible yet temporal stuff that makes up an election campaign. Join the convention, troll the floor, scoop up the junk, head on home. Not so fast.
Problem is, the window of opportunity for laying one's hands on such ephemera is extremely narrow.
But days later, when no one wants them anymore, they're impossible to find. He's the philosopher. Barry just looked at them like they were aliens. Don't look to the convention organizers for help, either. This time it's Harry.