Press Conference on Colonial One, Tory standing by. The reporters ask how long she's known: about a week. No telling how advanced it is yet. They ask if she'll be bleeding the baby some more and she gets official. "You know, this is the kind of detail I'm not gonna go into now." Too ghoulish? Too hard to spin? "You know, we're looking at a game plan. I'll let you know when we have one." A reporter asks how her treatments will impact her job: "So far, it hasn't at all." Still smiling; still the schoolteacher she's conditioned them to see. "Are you currently taking chamalla extract?" Don't answer that, hisses Tory. "How often do you hallucinate?" asks another reporter, and Tory flips out. "All right, enough of this crap. We're done here." Roslin says her name once, quietly, but loudly enough that we can see this happening and know that Tory's not on message: that the cameras can pick it up, and take it to the whole Fleet. This isn't Laura Roslin, your President speaking. She was only ever kind and sweet and strong. "... You vultures can go pick over another carcass... " Tory nearly shrieks, and the other schoolteacher -- the voice you shiver to think about, the one from being a kid -- comes out. "Tory! Come here. I'll see you inside. Thank you." She sends Tory backstage, and smiles again, chuckling. "I'm sorry. Temperatures are running a little high in the fleet these days. Who's next? Karen." Karen Fallbrook, a lovely reporter, decides to go for it: "Madame President. How long do you have to live?" Not classy, not on message, not worth going there yet: this is a dying leader, not a dead one. She's only just come to terms with coming out of remission, only just dedicated herself to living after so long running, in fear -- and you're going to go there? And the teacher's gone, and the lioness is back, and Roslin leans over -- in my memory, impossibly far over -- the podium, staring straight into Karen's soul, with a smile that says it all: "How long do you have to live, Karen?"