A $50 million margin call? I'll short Wall Street.

Wednesday morning, Arlington, Virginia, McCain's campaign headquarters.

In John McCain's office, the blinds were only half open, and sunlight slanted across the desk.

Rick Davis and Nancy Pierce sat on the sofa opposite him, with several documents spread out on the coffee table between them: the latest polls, media briefings, and a list of key points for Thursday's debate.

"Overall situation,"

Davis began, his tone displaying the characteristic restraint of a campaign manager—packaging bad news with as much calm as possible. "We've halted some of the decline this past week. Your remarks in Fairfax about 'oil prices' and 'honesty' resonated well, especially among blue-collar voters in the Midwest. Fox News has been amplifying them for us."

McCain didn't say anything, he just listened while holding a cup of coffee that had gone cold.

"But Obama's side is also very stable."

Nancy chimed in, "Their core tactics haven't changed; it's still those two points. First, 'McCain is a continuation of Bush's economic policies.' Second, 'McCain is incapable of truly handling this crisis.' To be honest, these two points... are hard to refute. Because they strike at the responsibilities of the ruling party, our Achilles' heel."

Davis turned a page of the briefing. "One more thing, Obama mentioned Walker at a rally in Ohio yesterday."

McCain raised his eyes.

"It wasn't an attack."

Davis quickly added, "On the contrary, he handled it very cleverly. An audience member asked about the commodity crash and that 'distant bottom,' and Obama didn't dodge the question, but he didn't elaborate either. He only said one thing—roughly, 'Lance used his judgment and capital to do something courageous when the market was most panicked, and he always adhered to the rules, which deserves respect; but we can't expect crises to always be resolved by some genius, what we need is a system that won't collapse.'"

Nancy added, "Very slippery. He neither offended those who idolize Walker nor failed to steer the conversation back to 'the system' and 'government responsibility.' And—he finally mentioned Walker's name, subtly deflecting your previous attack that 'he didn't even dare to say his name.'"

McCain gave a soft "hmm," but his expression remained unchanged.

So if we're going to talk about these topics next,

Davis steered the conversation back to the main point, "Our advice is to continue to solidify the two safe points of 'oil prices' and 'the private sector being more effective than Washington.' On economic issues, try to avoid 'regulation'—that's Obama's domain, and the more we talk about it, the more passive we become. Foreign policy and national security are your strengths, so steer the conversation in those directions. As for the 'Bush continuation' attack, we have a standard rebuttal prepared, emphasizing your differences with Bush on immigration, campaign finance, and climate issues to prove your 'independence.'"

McCain finally spoke, but asked a completely unrelated question.

"Do you still have that document about Walker? I asked you to organize it last time."

Davis paused for a moment, then pulled a thin folder from his briefcase and handed it to him. "Here. Would you like to see this?"

McCain took it and opened it.

There weren't many things inside, just publicly available materials—full printouts of the two open letters and the statement issued by Farstar Capital on Monday. The corners of the folder were already a bit curled, marks left from repeated reading. McCain had been taking it out to look at it whenever he had a spare moment these past few days.

He had an inexplicable interest in this twenty-six-year-old.

It wasn't quite the kind of interest politicians have in "useful people," but rather a... almost instinctive curiosity. He wanted to figure out what this young man, who was only slightly older than his son, was thinking.

McCain first flipped to the first open letter. The one he sent in July.

At that time, oil prices were still high at $140, and the whole world was predicting $200, but this young man wrote that "oil has significantly deviated from fundamentals." McCain remembers that when that letter was sent, almost no one took it seriously. Four days later, IndyMcBank collapsed.

Then there's that quote that's been cited countless times: "The most dangerous moment is when everyone stops talking about risk."

McCain's finger paused on that sentence.

He turned to the second open letter. It was the day known as the "Star Bottom"—the market was in freefall, everyone was panic selling, and this young man used $10 billion and a letter to pull the market back from the brink of disaster.

One sentence in that letter read: "It's not that the value of your assets has disappeared. It's that your confidence has disappeared. But confidence will return; it always will."

There is another passage, which is a statement made by Paulson and Bernanke, saying that the two men "have not left their posts" and that they are under pressure that ordinary people cannot imagine.

McCain recalls being somewhat surprised when he read this passage—a short seller who had just made tens of billions from the crash would actually stand up for two beleaguered government officials when the market was at its most panicked.

Finally, there was the statement from Monday.

McCain had read it many times. But he read it again.

That statement contained no defense, no insults, and none of the elaborate public relations efforts that Washington politicians make by hiring a team of public relations consultants to carefully craft its wording.

It simply stated three things calmly, even somewhat arrogantly: my trades are legal; I will not take advantage of a distorted market; if you have any objections, sue me in court.

The entire article makes no mention of Sarkozy. It makes no mention of France. It makes no mention of the global war of words against him.

McCain closed the folder.

Davis and Nancy were still waiting for his opinion on Thursday's debate strategy, but McCain's thoughts had already drifted elsewhere.

He recalled Nancy's earlier statement—"'McCain is incapable of truly handling this crisis,' and that's hard to refute."

Managing the crisis.

McCain looked at the curled-up folder on the table and suddenly thought of something.

What did this 26-year-old do?

He saw through the bubble and placed his bet. He was condemned worldwide, attacked on television by the French president, but he didn't even bother to respond, because he knew he was right. He fulfilled his responsibility as a market participant—to see the truth and then place his bet on his judgment. That's all.

He didn't hesitate. He didn't hire a group of consultants to tell him "whether this statement will offend a certain group." He didn't conduct polls, test his wording, or leave himself an escape route.

He simply did what he thought was right and let the results speak for themselves.

McCain's gaze lifted from the folder and landed on the densely packed points of attack and defense prepared for Thursday's debate on the coffee table.

"Avoid regulation." "Leverage strengths in foreign relations." "Standard rebuttal script." "Consolidate security points."

Each and every one of them was telling him how to play the role of a winning candidate.

Instead of—how to do John McCain.

He spent five and a half years of his life in a cage in Vietnam. Because his father was a naval admiral, they gave him a chance to go home early, as long as he signed a document admitting that he was wrong.

He didn't sign.

At that time, he didn't calculate "what benefits it would bring me to stay," he just did what he thought an officer should do.

Now, he is seventy-two years old. This is his last chance to run for president. And here he sits, being told by a group of aides thirty or forty years younger than him what to say, what not to say, what points are safe, and what points are dangerous.

A 26-year-old knows what he should be doing. But John McCain is being taught by a group of people how to pretend.

McCain suddenly felt a wave of shame.

"Rick," he said, his voice lower than before.

"exist."

"If I fight as you say,"

McCain looked up at him. "Do you think I can win?"

Davis froze. This was a question he didn't want to answer directly. He carefully chose his words: "The election is still uncertain. We are indeed at a disadvantage economically, but as long as we hold our ground, avoid mistakes, and score points in foreign policy and national security, we still have a chance in swing states—"

"Rick," McCain interrupted him, "I'm asking, do you think I can win?"

The office was silent for a few seconds.

Davis did not answer. But that silence itself was the answer.

McCain nodded. He wasn't surprised. He'd known all along: the ruling party's responsibility, the timing of the economic collapse, and the party's brand damaged by Bush.

These things cannot be reversed by a few "standard rebuttal lines".

He will most likely lose.

In this situation where he is "likely to lose," what he has been doing for the past few weeks is playing the role of an "optimized, flawless, perfect candidate"—someone who is not himself.

McCain leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.

He remembered a question, a question that had been swirling in his mind for the past few days, but which he had never dared to confront.

If I were to play the role of someone who is "not me" and win this election by sheer luck—what would be the point of such a victory?

He will get the presidency. But he will lose himself.

A 72-year-old man won in the last battle of his life in a way that was "not himself"—was such a victory worthwhile?

Besides, he has no chance of winning.

So, if you're destined to lose...

At least let me lose like myself.

McCain's gaze returned to the curled-up folder.

That 26-year-old young man fulfilled his responsibility as a market participant and said what he should say.

And what is my responsibility, John McCain, as a senator in crisis and a presidential candidate?

My responsibility is to solve problems first. It's to let the voters of this country know who I really am, instead of continuing to hide behind the scripts of my staff, hesitating and worrying.

He sat up straight.

"Rick, Nancy."

He said, "Thank you for preparing all this."

Davis and Nancy exchanged a glance, both seeing a hint of unease on each other's faces.

McCain's tone when he said "thank you" was a bit off.

"But," McCain gently pushed the offensive and defensive guidelines aside, "I think I know what to do next."

"Senator," Nancy said somewhat nervously, "our strategy has been tested repeatedly, and the polls show—"

"Nancy." McCain looked at her, his eyes holding something they hadn't seen in a long time.

The tired, passive, and calculating look from the campaign had faded, replaced by a soldier-like, determined resolve.

"I'm seventy-two years old now. This might be the last time I stand on that stage. And I don't want to play someone I don't even recognize in this final battle."

Davis opened his mouth, as if he wanted to say something.

"I know what you're going to say, Rick."

McCain waved his hand. "You're right to say that this kind of fighting is too risky, that it will lose our base, offend donors, and displease people within the party. You're absolutely right."

"But tell me, if I play the safe way and still lose in the end... then what was the point of all that I lost? Was it to lose gracefully, cleanly, and without saying a word?"

A long silence fell over the office.

Davis ultimately said nothing.

Because he knew that when John McCain spoke in that tone, no one could change his mind.

This is McCain, the one who "straight talked," the one they thought had been worn down by the schemes of the election, but who has now come back to life.

McCain picked up the curled-edge folder about Walker, weighed it in his hand, and then put it into his drawer.

"That's fine then."