The Next Big Lie

Medicare. 800 words, 4 minute read. With Claude Sonnet and Midjourney.

The "Welcome Home Congressman Davis" banner twisted in the October wind, one corner torn free from the gazebo. Robert Davis watched it through the tinted window of his SUV, remembering when this same town square had displayed his "Eagle Scout of the Year" photo.

His aide tapped on her tablet. "Local press only. Remember, we're calling it 'program modernization,' not restructuring."

Davis nodded, phrases forming automatically: strategic adjustments, eliminating inefficiencies, protecting future generations. Smooth as river stones.

"Anyone I should worry about?" he asked.

"Frank Peterson's organized some Medicare advocacy group."

Frank Peterson. Davis remembered summers working at Peterson's Pharmacy, Frank showing him how to count pills, explaining which customers couldn't afford their full prescriptions.

"Sometimes healing people and helping people aren't the same thing," Frank had told him.

The crowd's applause was thin as Davis approached the podium. He was midway through his speech when a voice cut through.

"What about Sacred Heart Hospital?"

Frank Peterson stood with arms crossed. "They're closing the geriatric ward. Thirty-seven beds, gone by Christmas. Administrator says the new Medicare reimbursement rates won't cover costs."

"Healthcare administrators make those decisions locally, not Congress," Davis replied smoothly. "But I understand your concern—"

"It's your bill, Bobby." Frank's use of the childhood nickname landed like a slap. "Your 'Fiscal Responsibility Act' cut reimbursement rates by twenty-two percent."

Davis stepped from behind the podium. "We haven't cut Medicare—we've streamlined administrative costs to ensure program viability."

Even as he spoke, Davis remembered the committee meetings. The spreadsheets: 38% reduction in extended care coverage, 22% decrease in reimbursements. Numbers in Washington, transformed here into closed hospital wards and impossible choices.

"My mother's heart medication went from forty dollars to one-twenty overnight." Emma Reeves stepped forward—who'd sat behind him in AP English, who'd helped perfect his college essays. "She's taking pills every other day now."

Before Davis could respond with his prepared points, another familiar face emerged. Daniel Hayes—his childhood best friend, the best man at his wedding.

"Our daughter's insulin. Seven hundred forty dollars a vial now," Daniel said flatly. "Our insurance covered it before your bill. Now it doesn't."

Davis felt a flash of genuine dismay. "Dan, I had no idea—"

"How could you?" Daniel's wife interjected. "You don't live here anymore."

"Look, this is just like January 6th," Davis began. "The GOP didn’t cut Medicare. We just didn’t, I’m telling you."

"Tell that to Martha Simmons," Frank interrupted. "She's choosing between heat and heart medication this winter."

The crowd parted to reveal Martha herself, leaning on a cane. Her blue cardigan hung loose on her diminished frame.

"Robert James Davis." Her voice carried across the square. "Your daddy would be ashamed to hear you talking that way."

Davis moved toward her, political instincts momentarily forgotten. "Mrs. Simmons."

"Don't you 'Mrs. Simmons' me like I'm a stranger. I taught you better than this double-talk."

"I'm not—" Davis began, then stopped. In Washington, he'd have three different ways to reframe this conversation. Here, with Martha's eyes on him, words failed.

"My Social Security is $1,142 a month. Rent is $850. My medications were $120 with my Medicare coverage. Now they're $340 without it." Martha spoke each number distinctly. "You do the math, Bobby."

Davis felt something crack inside him—a hairline fracture in the persona he'd constructed over years of campaigns and compromises.

"The bill had unintended consequences," he admitted. "I see that now."

His aide stiffened beside him. In his earpiece, his campaign manager hissed: "Pivot back to talking points. Now."

"When we return to session, I'll introduce an amendment to address the reimbursement rates affecting rural hospitals," Davis said, words coming without calculation. "And I'll look into the supplemental coverage issue personally."

Martha studied his face. "Your daddy always said promises are easy, Bobby. It's keeping them that matters."

"I remember," Davis said softly.

Later, in the SUV, Davis watched Martha make her slow way across the square, leaning on her cane. The welcome banner still flapped, half-free from its moorings.

"That could have gone better," his aide said. "We need to refine the Medicare messaging. Focus more on long-term benefits, less on immediate changes."

"About that amendment you mentioned. Was that just for the crowd, or should I have the team start drafting?"

Davis hesitated, seeing two paths before him: one politically safe, the other uncertain and likely costly to his career.

"Draft something," he said finally. "Nothing specific yet. Just... options."

His aide nodded and returned to her tablet. Davis loosened his tie as Millfield receded in the side mirror, his phone vibrating with a call from party leadership. He let it ring, knowing that whatever decision he made tomorrow, something had changed today. He just wasn't sure yet if it was the policy or himself.

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