And:
The Zamboni footage is perfect. That nervous energy reads as relatable/comedic. Network wants to see if there's a pattern.
And:
Re: your concerns about context—we can address tone in the edit. Right now, priority is volume.
There it was. Direct instructions to film Pickle's anxiety responses without his knowledge. To treat his nervous system like B-roll.
I'd done that.
I'd kept the camera rolling when I should have put it down. I'd sent the footage when I should have deleted it. I'd told myself I was playing a long game, building trust with the network so I could shape the final product.
Their version of the final product was circus music over a man pressing his palms against his chest.
I thought about Pickle's hands. How they moved when he spoke—expressive, uncontrolled, like his body couldn't contain everything he was feeling. I remembered how they'd felt on my skin, tracing patterns on my chest while he rambled about penguin mating habits.
Pickle had signed a release form because he trusted me. He'd agreed to be part of a story about the Storm. He hadn't consented to have his life turned into entertainment. He hadn't given permission to be the punchline.
I pulled up a new document and started typing.
Documentation of Editorial Pressure - Thunder Bay Project.
I listed everything. Every email. Every note. Every request to heighten the quirks, capture his worst moments, and prioritize comedy over dignity. Timestamps. Direct quotes. Names.
It took almost three hours. Twenty-one pages.
I saved the file. Made three backup copies. Sent one to Lenny with a note:Insurance. In case I need it.
Then I looked at the clock.
4:47 a.m.
Thirteen minutes until the call I'd been building toward all night.
Somewhere in Thunder Bay, Pickle was sleeping or not sleeping. Either hoping or already starting to wall himself off.
I thought about the weight of him against my chest when he'd saidI've got you.
I wanted to be worth that.
I had thirteen minutes to decide what kind of person I was.
At precisely 5:00 a.m., I dialed.
Naomi answered on the second ring. "Adrian."
"Naomi."
A pause. The creak of her chair. "It's early. Even for you."
"I have something to say."
"I'm awake." The click of a pen. "Speak."
"If anything airs that turns Pickle into a joke without his informed consent, I go public."
Silence.
