Chicago, early 1990s. The leader drinks cheap red wine from a half-gallon bottle, sharing it with a party of younger comrades standing in the corridor before her room.
Orange-red hair, nervous energy, throaty laugh raspy from cigarettes. "What are you going to do?", she asks, theatrically light-hearted, inwardly terrified.
They're going to oppose her at the convention next day. Because, as she herself admits in her private, lucid moments, she has no clue what she's doing.