Page 18 of Small Sacrifices

Reid starts his next day with a throbbing headache, and things only get worse from there. The responses he expected from the DMs he sent out are nowhere to be found. Almost nowhere. There's one message in his Instagram inbox: "Fuck off, this isn't funny."

Reid is baffled. How could anyone think he's making a joke?

The messages were sent from the verified @CALgov account.

Maybe it's the medium? Do these parents view everything on social media with suspicion?

He has very little information on them, no official list of affected children.

All he knows is the number published by the New York Times : twenty-four.

Not to be deterred, Reid replies to the suspicious DM, though he doubts it will lead to much.

He then turns his attention to calling the numbers he didn't reach yesterday.

This results in some new conversations and a few tentative agreements to attend, depending on the date.

But the responses are tepid. What is he supposed to do with "Yeah, I'll have to see.

Maybe"? It's not enough for Mr. Wright's planning purposes.

He asks Marisol that question and Marisol, pen between her teeth and a smudge of ink in the corner of her mouth, tells him to go ask Mr. Wright. Which is reasonable, but so not what he wanted to hear.

Mr. Wright's face after Reid has finished his question is a sight to behold. Truly, Reid had no idea his eyebrows were this agile. One of them wanders halfway up his bald head. "You ask me that now?" he demands.

Oh, damn it. This is why Reid doesn't work well under pressure—at least not the kind Mr. Wright exerts. If Reid had known that he was allowed to ask this, he probably would have asked much earlier.

"... yes?" Reid says. Is this a rhetorical question?

Mr. Wright does not look impressed. "It's almost noon. It's Friday. We need to finalize our plans on Monday. Were you planning on coming in tomorrow?"

Fuck. Why would… There's no way he has the energy for that. It wouldn't end well. Just the thought of it makes everything in Reid contract. There's a ringing sound in his ears. Wordlessly, he shakes his head.

"Well, then you're leaving it awfully late, aren't you?"

"I'm sorry, sir."

Mr. Wright doesn't say it's okay. Instead, he just rubs his forehead. "How many—what did you call it— tentative yeses did you get?"

"Twelve, sir. At least one parent for eight of the children. Sometimes two."

"Twelve?" His booming voice sounds incredulous, and for just a moment, Reid thinks he must have really messed up. Twelve parents is only a quarter, if the NYT has their numbers right. "Boy, how are we supposed to fit twelve people in frame?"

Reid shudders at being called "boy″. It feels oddly inappropriate.

But then, the rest of what the man said catches up to him.

Could they seat the parents in rows? Aren't camera people trained for this?

But then he notices Mr. Wright's patronizingly benevolent expression. Ah. It wasn't an actual question.

"None of them have given me a definitive answer without a date," Reid hurries to explain. "I mean, I have two who said yes unreservedly. I'm counting those separately. But we can't know—"

"Oh, they'll come." Mr. Wright swats his hand at the empty air like Reid's questions are annoying flies.

"But what if they don't have time?" Most of them appear to be working regular jobs.

"They'll make the time. This is important to them."

Now, the last part of that sentence is true.

But Reid isn't so sure about the first one.

These aren't lawyers and people in upper management positions who have flexible working hours and can work from home.

They're grocery store clerks, food service workers, roofers.

That's why it took so long for someone to listen to them.

There's a good chance that their bosses and supervisors won't give them time off to speak to the governor.

Come to think of it—Ms. Greene is a teacher, and yesterday, she was in the hospital with her son.

But classes are still ongoing, as far as Reid knows.

Why wasn't she at school? Did she quit her job?

Reid should know this, if only to assess how big a risk it would be to put her not only in a room with the governor, but also directly in front of a camera.

But then again, maybe he's overthinking it.

"So twelve would be enough?" he asks, just to be sure.

"Twelve would be plenty," Mr. Wright says. "And you still have the rest of the day. Just hand in the profiles before midnight. The security officers are going to be doing their security checks tomorrow."

"Profiles?" Reid almost squeaks the word. He's never heard anything about profiles. What is that supposed to be? This isn't good.

"Oh, come on. I told you about the profiles."

"I don't think I remember that," Reid says. It's a much more diplomatic answer than Mr. Wright deserves, but he still doesn't appear to be happy with it. At the very least, he looks deeply unimpressed.

"Well, good thing you came so early, then, ain't it?"

Reid forces himself to keep a neutral expression. He's supposed to write fourteen profiles for parents who might attend—or for all of them if more show up? And what exactly is a profile supposed to include?

"Of course," Reid says. He has to press his fingers together to stop himself from moving his hands. "Would you kindly remind me of the criteria for these profiles?"

Mr. Wright does so with an air of smug generosity about him. "And remember to provide sources for any claims."

Reid's ears are ringing. This… no. This doesn't seem at all like it would be Reid's job.

Find out whether any of the parents would attend?

Sure. Flag it if he finds out that one of them has extreme political leanings and could be a threat?

Absolutely. He'll even do that for intense emotional states if he's able to recognize any of those.

But this? This seems like it would only be a job for a public relations intern if everyone employed in the governor's security detail was incapacitated and the other, more experienced PR people were busy putting out some other fire.

"Would it not be the task of the PPOs to research if any of those parents pose a threat?"

The smile on Mr. Wright's face is close-mouthed, but Reid still gets the impression that he’s being shown teeth. "Of course. And they'll do it based on your profiles. I told them you'd make those."

Fuck. Reid's hands feel numb all of a sudden. That's not good. "Me personally?" he asks, as though he's lucky enough to get a negative answer.

"You personally."

Fuck. This is overwhelming. Especially given that Mr. Wright wants not just basic details but also medical information about the children that the parents shared—information Reid has only handwritten, without sources.

"So, fourteen profiles then? For everyone who's responded positively or ambiguously?" Reid asks, realizing he might have to prove that Mr. Wright never mentioned this task if he needs to. He needs to narrow it down. Fourteen profiles are already too many. He'll have to eat at his desk again.

"Didn't you just tell me you contacted a bunch more people who haven't responded yet? What if any of them decide to turn up?"

"Won't there be security present?" Reid asks, trying to buy some time.

Mr. Wright chuckles. "Of course, security will be present. But don't you want them to know who they should focus on so that the governor will remain safe? This is a contentious issue, after all. They blame him for their children being sick."

Somehow, this seems off. Even if the officers of the security detail do that kind of research before letting the governor meet with the parents of elementary school children, sick or not, should they not do it themselves?

What if Reid misses something? He isn't trained in these sorts of things. That's dangerous, and he says as much.

"Well, then, be diligent. Wouldn't want anyone to get hurt," Mr. Wright says.

For no reason in particular, Reid gets the impression that Mr. Wright is far more likely to get hurt than the governor.

Yes, the governor has political enemies.

But he's usually far away from them. Reid can't imagine that no one has ever seriously considered harming Mr. Wright—and his colleagues have daily access to him.

"Alright. What email address do you need me to send this to?"

"Oh, just send it to me. I'll forward it.

" Why is Mr. Wright smiling? Reid feels like he shouldn't be smiling.

But maybe he's biased because he’s miserable right now.

Other people can still have a good time even when he's already falling apart over the workload piled in front of him like a mountain. He knows this.

"I'm sorry, but it'll take me quite a long time to finish this today. Perhaps you could—"

"No, that's alright. Just send them over when you're finished. I'll forward them."

This isn't right. That's the only thing Reid can think about when he leaves the room and hurries back to his desk.

The thought is just on repeat. It's not right.

Definitely not. It can't be. But why? The question makes Reid draw a blank.

His mind is empty except for this one impression, this perception of wrongness.

But Marisol looks busy, so he doesn't feel like he can talk to her right now.

That only means one thing: Breathing exercises.

They help a bit, but not enough. He's still feeling vague, like he's smudging at the edges.

That's not good. He should go home. If he continues working like this, under these circumstances, it won’t end well.

It never did when he was still trying to do it in school—that's how he ended up burned out in the first place.

Unfortunately, he'll need to keep working if he wants to keep his internship.