My four days off are no longer merely dead.
They are buried in a shallow grave behind the appliance bay.
“You agreed to this?” I ask.
“I agreed to consider it.”
“That is a very slippery sentence.”
Josh’s mouth twitches. “I said I would discuss it with you.”
“On my way out.”
“I appreciate the timing could be better.”
I step fully into the office and close the door behind me. Josh looks at the door, then at me, and for once he has thegood sense not to make a joke about whether he should be worried.
I put my bag on the floor. “Let me understand this. A journalist writes an article that makes me sound like I stood at a farm fire thoughtfully contemplating procedure while things burned around me.”
Josh’s lips tighten. “That is not exactly what it said.”
“That is exactly what it invited people to think.”
“Okay.”
“And now, to fix the problem, the same journalist is going to follow me around my station for two weeks.”
Josh leans back. “When you say it like that…”
“Accurately?”
“…it sounds less charming.”
“It was meant to sound murderous.”
“I picked that up.”
He has the nerve to look calm.
This is one of Josh’s most annoying qualities. He can sit in the middle of complete chaos looking as if he has simply been asked to choose between two biscuit tins. It is useful on incidents. It is infuriating now.
“No,” I say.
Josh nods once. “Okay.”
That stops me more effectively than an argument would have done.
I narrow my eyes. “Okay?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not going to try to talk me round?”
“I am,” he says. “But not by pretending you don’t have a point.”
That is irritatingly difficult to object to.
I fold my arms. “Excellent. Consent before manipulation. Very modern management.”
