“Hey,” she says, voice low, steady around the edges. There’s a soft scrape in the background like she’s moving a chair to sit, claiming space with furniture.
“Hey.” I close my eyes because it makes hearing easier. “You sure?”
“I’m sure I want to own the angle,” she says. “I’m not sure of anything else. But I won’t let them use my body like a billboard for their speculation.” A breath. “We do this, we do it clean.”
“Clean,” I echo. “Ground rules: no medical details, no dates beyond what’s public, no images from inside any clinic, and they run a statement condemning harassment of staff on air.”
“And a blur request for anything already out there,” she adds. “Even if they won’t do it, we ask on camera. Make it clear we did.”
“Yes.” I hear the click of a pen on her end and picture her writing bullet points in that precise trainer script that never wavers, even when the floor does. “We speak as equals,” she says. “No chivalry that reads as you rescuing me.”
“I’m not rescuing you,” I say. “I’m standing where I should have been the whole time.”
There’s the smallest smile in her silence, and then business again. “If they try to bait us into debating policy, we pivot to process. Independent oversight. Rehab logs. Facts over optics.”
“Facts,” I agree. “And love.” The word slides out before I can filter it into something media-safe. I don’t take it back.
A soft exhale. “And love.”
I knock once on the door and Julia opens it like she was already mid-reach. I hit speaker and set the phone on the copier lid. “Riley’s in,” I say. “On her terms.”
“Understood,” Julia says, already dialing with her other hand. “I’m putting the station on. We lead with guardrails and hang up if they blink.” She taps a key and a third voice joins—producer-bright, smooth as a local news anchor ordering coffee.
“Jason, we’re honored—” the producer starts.
“Guardrails first,” Julia cuts in. “You agree to the following or there’s no segment: no medical details, no ultrasound images live or b-roll, no naming or showing staff who haven’t consented. Lower third runs: ‘Harassment of team staff is unacceptable—report issues to [hotline number].’ We reserve right of review on chyron language.”
A pause on the other end—calculating. “We can blur sensitive images,” he says carefully. “Our audience expects context?—”
“Context is facts,” Riley says, clean into the speaker. “Independent medical oversight. Audit trail. We’ll provide what you need for accuracy. We won’t provide our medical records.”
Another beat. I can almost hear him looking at his rundown and doing math. “We can work with that,” he says finally. “Studio B in thirty-five. Two cameras, one segment, ten minutes.”
“Fifteen,” Julia counters. “And you provide copies of the segment and all raw of our appearance within an hour of wrap.”
“Ten on air,” he bargains. “Off-air pickup for the post segment web. You get the files.”
Julia considers, then nods for all of us. “Done. Email the terms. If the language shifts, the interview doesn’t happen.”
He agrees, a little too quickly, which means he wants us enough to swallow pride. Good. We’ll make him swallow the rest.
The line clicks off. Julia’s pen is already moving. “Wardrobe: solid colors, no logos. Riley needs a car and a quiet entrance.”
“I’ll drive her,” I say.
“No,” Riley says, at the same time. “Together, but not through the front. I’m not giving them the shot.” She’s right. I love her a little more for thinking two steps ahead while the ground shifts.
Julia is already texting. “Side entrance. Half hour. We keep it small. We say what we came to say. And when they push?—”
“We don’t rage,” I finish, catching her eye. “Results.”
“Results,” Riley echoes through the speaker. “See you in thirty.”
Studio B smells like hot lights and old coffee. It’s a smaller room than the main set—black curtains swallowing the edges, two cameras on dollies, a semicircle of chairs that want to look casual and succeed at awkward. A producer in a slate blazer meets us halfway, headset perched like a crown.
“Appreciate you coming in,” he says, smile bright enough to light a rink. His gaze flicks to Riley, then away, then back like he’s reminding himself she’s a person and not a segment. “We’ll keep it respectful.”
Julia doesn’t bother to smile. “Respect begins with the guardrails you agreed to,” she says. “We’re not here to relitigate them.”
