Page 17 of Small Sacrifices

"Respectfully," Ms. Greene says. "I think that's bullshit.

I mean, I get why you're doing it like this. But he could help. He certainly could’ve spoken up earlier.

We've been trying to reach people for weeks.

Even if he didn't see our posts, his social media team must have.

And there were definitely enough of them it would have warranted telling a supervisor.

" She huffs. "And if that didn't happen—why?

What is he telling his employees? Does he not care? "

Ah. Well. Given how hands-off Governor Mackenzie has been since the news broke, just the thought of attempting to answer that question makes Reid extremely uncomfortable.

"I would argue that he does. I think he cares a lot. But you don't need to believe me. You could just ask him."

Saying that makes him squirm. Ew. It's so manipulative. Why is he doing this? Why does he have to do this? Why did he choose this job knowing there was even the tiniest of chances that he might have to do this? Nothing about this feels like helping people.

Ms. Greene huffs out a laugh so humorless it may as well just be a sound of derision. "Sure. We'll see. I have to say, the thought of being able to shout at that man is very tempting."

God, he really shouldn't like her as much as he does. It's clouding his judgment. "I can't promise you that you'd be allowed to shout for long."

That gets him a snort. "You're a snarky one, aren't you? I bet your teachers hated that."

"No comment," he says, and makes his voice bright to convey levity. If this is banter, then he wants to match her tone. Or, well, try to. But he seems to succeed.

"Good answer," Ms. Greene says. A deep breath tells Reid that she's gearing up to say something else.

That's when the beeping starts up again, only it sounds worse this time.

Is it louder? He's pretty sure that it's at least closer to the microphone.

He doesn't know for certain, but he doesn't have to.

Because Ms. Greene hangs up on him. She doesn't even apologize or say goodbye.

For a moment, he just sits there and breathes.

Is there any scenario in which a beeping sound like that one can ever good?

He can’t come up with one. Especially in a hospital.

God, he hopes Robin is alright. Or will be alright, at least. He's in the hospital.

Clearly, he isn't alright right now. That's kind of the point.

Someone clears their throat. Reid doesn't pay it much mind and keeps staring into thin air until they do it again, only this time louder and much more pointedly.

Oh. Reid looks up. Is he doing something wrong?

He wasn't even humming or whistling, so how could—ah.

His eyes fall on the pen in his hand, catching his thumb in the act of pressing down on the button.

Of course. He's been clicking his pen again. That would do it.

He lets go of the pen and watches it fall onto the paper mat his laptop is perched on. His leg starts bouncing almost simultaneously. He still needs to call all the other parents.

It's exhausting. He sends many DMs on Instagram and Twitter, and calls every phone number he can decipher from the phone tree picture. He finds himself lying—mostly by omission—but still lying.

That part is frighteningly easy. Only one of them actually screams at him, a mother of a little girl whose neurodermatitis was painfully aggravated by contact with the pesticides and who, until today, wasn't able to afford the steroid creams to treat this.

And that's difficult, because he has to keep his mouth shut and not apologize, but he's also in an office full of his colleagues, so tears are not an acceptable release for that frustration.

But really, what's much more difficult than that is the relief and the "thank yous″.

"I really appreciate that he wants to take the time to visit us," says an especially tired-sounding father. "We can really use the eyes on us. Otherwise, I think Agrifarm will just be able to completely sweep this under the rug."

It shouldn't bother Reid, and he doesn't know why it does. But the way that some parents just agree to meeting the governor and seem happy to do it makes something twitch in the hinge of his jaw.

Sure, there's hemming and hawing. Some parents sound angry, some suspicious, most of them tired. But only Ms. Greene questions him. And that just seems too easy.

When he asks Marisol about it, she shrugs. "Maybe they know you're just a grunt. No point in screaming at you, is there? That Greene woman—maybe she's the weird one."

By the end of the day, Reid can barely think straight. He's talked to about ten different parents by then, and he's had to be careful about choosing his words the entire time. His head is hurting from all the "ifs″ and "maybes″ and "I cannot speak for the governors″.

It's five p.m., and he knows he shouldn't leave. It's too early. He had left early yesterday. But he also knows that he's got another day of this in his future. About half of the parents didn't answer at all, and even those who did didn't give him much to work with.

He needs to give them time to get home from work and check their phones, check their social media. And he needs the energy to start the whole thing over tomorrow. So he leaves. He takes care to say goodbye to Marisol this time, and then he packs up his satchel and steps out of the office.

When he can finally pull the door closed behind himself, he lets himself sag against it for a few deep breaths. It's supposed to be just a moment of reprieve. But he should have checked his environment, because two breaths in, the calm is shattered.

"Hard day at work, huh?"

Reid's heart sinks. It's Everett Mackenzie.

Again, in a place he really has no business being in, as far as Reid is aware.

What did he do to deserve this? He's tempted to keep his eyes closed and hope the guy leaves, but Everett was probably here first. He doesn't sound angry or mean, just amused. Amused, Reid can handle.

"I'm still getting used to being on the phone for long periods of time." There, that's acceptable, isn't it? Now Everett can make a joke about young people, Reid can try his best to fake a convincing laugh, and then they can both go their separate ways.

But Everett doesn't make a joke; he just hums. And what is that supposed to mean?

Opening his eyes doesn't give Reid an answer, but it does afford him the strange view of Everett sitting propped up against the wall in the dim light of the corridor.

His usually swoopy hair is messily falling into his eyes, and he has his head tilted up at Reid, lolling against the faded wallpaper behind him.

Is he squinting? It looks that way. The light makes it difficult to judge, but in addition to that, Reid thinks Everett looks almost… pale?

"Is everything alright?" The question slips out before Reid can stop himself. Immediately, he wants to bang his head against the door. That's not what he was supposed to say. He was supposed to just say goodbye and leave.

Everett hums again and blinks up at him lazily. "Are you happy with your job?"

Fuck, Reid is way too tired for this. Even taking deep breaths doesn't really work because the air in the hallway is so stale. "Of course I am," he says, because he knows how these things are supposed to go. "It's a great opportunity. I feel honored to be trusted like this."

Before he started here, his sister Briana had coached him on handling situations like these.

Or, well, questions like these. He's pretty sure she couldn't have foreseen that the governor's son would keep questioning him.

But apparently, it's a common question to be asked.

And it's a dangerous one to answer too "honestly", whatever that means.

People have been using that phrase around him for years, and he still doesn't know.

Contrary to Briana's assurances, however, this seems to not be a satisfactory answer. Everett's entire face scrunches up—which doesn't make him look stupid, just adorable. It's unfair, is what it is, how attractive some people are.

"Even if you have to lie so much? Isn't that difficult?" Everett asks.

Reid notices that he's close enough to kick and summarily buries the thought. Enacting violence against the governor's son would be a very stupid thing to do, no matter how annoying the questions he asks.

"I don't lie," Reid lies.

Everett chuckles. "Of course you don't. Politicians never lie. What is it my father always says? He works with the truth. That's bullshit, if you ask me."

In Reid's opinion, that actually sounds quite sensible. But that's not what this is about.

"I'm not a politician," he reminds Everett, which earns him a snort.

"I feel like we've had this conversation before." Everett's words are weirdly slow when he says this, carefully enunciated. He sounds even more tired than Reid feels.

"We have," Reid says.

Everett chuckles to himself. "Same bullshit, different day."

Reid draws a sharp breath. That's enough.

He doesn't have to stay and listen to this. "My job is not bullshit," he says and carefully steps over Everett's legs, which he's stretched out and is blocking the entire hallway with. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to leave."

And he does. Behind him, he can hear Everett shuffle to his feet and stammer through an attempt at an apology.

He even says Reid's name. But Reid ignores it.

His day has already been hard enough, and dealing with Everett's issues is not in his job description.

Everett will just have to figure it out on his own.