I stare at him.
He watches me carefully now.
I look away first because that part gets too close to something I don’t want to name.
Being seen properly.
Dangerous concept.
“Fine,” I say. “That sounds sensible.”
Josh nods. “Good.”
“So they send a reporter, I answer questions without throwing anything, they take a photo where I look terrifying but approachable, and everyone moves on.”
Josh clears his throat.
I give him my sternest stare. “Joshua.”
His eyebrows lift. “You used my full name.”
“You look like you’re about to deserve it.”
He exhales through his nose. “The editor thought a single interview would be too thin.”
Dread settles in my stomach.
“She thinks the reporter needs to understand the station fully.”
I say nothing.
Josh continues, which is brave of him. “She suggested he spend time here.”
I still say nothing.
Josh scratches the side of his jaw. “Two weeks.”
My mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
Which is unusual enough that Josh has the sense to look concerned.
I try again. “Two weeks.”
“Yes.”
“The journalist?”
“Yes.”
“The one who wrote the article?”
“Yes.”
I stare at him.
For a moment, all I can hear is the distant murmur of the station beyond his office and the faint buzz of the light overhead. Two weeks. The man who turned one quote and one sentence into a neat little invitation for the county to discuss my suitability is apparently going to be walking around my station, breathing my air, watching my crew and writing things down.
