The living room at Graceland was hazy with cigar smoke and the easy familiarity of the Memphis Mafia. The boys were scattered around, drinks in hand, the low hum of conversation punctuated by bursts of laughter. On the large console television, the flickering black-and-white image of the Democratic National Convention held a strange, compelling energy. They weren't usually ones for politics, but this was different. This was a show.

And the star was her.

Elvis leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his gaze fixed on the screen. She was a revelation, a whirlwind in a sea of stodgy, gray-suited men. Her slogan was everywhere, a bold, defiant statement that was as controversial as it was direct: "If you're black, Hispanic, Chinese, Muslim, mixed, immigrant, middle class, a woman, homosexual, or anything besides a white male, red isn't for you, join blue." It was a sentiment that would have gotten most folks run out of town on a rail, but the crowd on the screen was eating it up. She had a fire, a charisma you couldn't look away from.

And her clothes. Good Lord, her clothes. While every other politician looked like they'd been stamped from the same dull mold, she wore a sharply tailored suit, but the fabric was a print of the actual United States Constitution. On another day, he’d seen her in a brilliant cobalt blue, and another time in a deep cerulean pinstripe. She was making a statement without saying a word, and Elvis, a man who understood the power of an image, appreciated the artistry of it.

"She's got guts, I'll give her that," Sonny muttered, shaking his head in a mixture of disbelief and admiration.

"Guts?" Red West chuckled. "She's gonna need more'n guts. They're gonna crucify her."

But Elvis wasn't so sure. He watched the way she moved, with an unapologetic confidence that reminded him of his own early days, when he’d shaken the foundations of everything people thought was acceptable. She was funny, too. He’d seen clips of her disarming hostile reporters with a quick wit and a disarming smile, turning their aggression back on them with a charm that was utterly unconventional for the political stage. She wasn't just running; she was performing, and she was a natural.

The camera closed in on her face as she stepped up to the podium, the crowd's roar swelling into a single, powerful wave of sound. The convention hall was a sea of waving blue signs bearing her slogan. She stood there for a moment, letting the energy build, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. She wasn't nervous. She was in her element.

In the quiet of the Graceland living room, the only sound was the electric buzz of the television and the expectant silence of the men. Elvis felt a strange kinship with this woman he'd never meet. She was an outsider, too, trying to make her own kind of music in a world that wanted to keep playing the same old tune. He watched her take a breath, about to speak, and the words left his lips in a low, heartfelt drawl, a tribute from one iconoclast to another.

“Man,” he breathed, his gaze never leaving the screen, “she’s talkin’ for my mama.”