Page 25 of Small Sacrifices

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.

He brews himself a valerian root tea and keeps on doing his breathing exercises as subtly as possible. And he writes. He types up all his notes and then looks for the necessary sources to quote. By then, he's incredibly glad that he took screenshots, because it seems that the announcement of a gubernatorial visit has made some people go back into their feeds and delete posts. Even people who didn't react to Reid's messages.

When he's finished with that, it's already past the time when he went home the day before. And his profiles are laughable. It's like Mr. Wright wants him to fail. He's got these people's names and ages, their children's names and ages, their chosen professions and an idea of their general political interests. How is that enough?

It disregards motivation. Yes, the child of two grocery store clerks might have more difficulty accessing treatment for insurance reasons. But are their symptoms bad enough that they desperately need it? Is it painful for the parents to watch their child suffer like this or do they not care as much and it's more of an inconvenience to them?

Marisol's hand on his shoulder rips him out of his thoughts. "Watcha doing? Aren't you supposed to be enjoying your weekend already?"

He sighs. "I still have to finish this. You go ahead and enjoy for me, yeah?"

The sound this draws out of her reminds him of a disgruntled cat. "What is this?"

"Just profiles." Reid wipes a hand over his face, then drags it down the corners of his mouth. "Mr. Wright wants me to show that I did my work properly."

It's not the truth, but it’s the explanation he thinks she'll accept. And even that she doesn't do easily. "What the hell? You always do your work properly. Too properly, most of the time."

Reid suddenly feels an urge to hug her. She's so kind, her concern clear as she scrunches her nose and purses her mouth. He wants to tell her the truth, and it's surprising how much he believes she'd support him. The thought of hugging her is unusual for him—he rarely wants physical contact. But right now, the idea of wrapping himself in her support feels incredibly comforting.

"I'm new. I still need to prove myself," he says, hoping it'll do the trick. Marisol is great, but if he wants to get this done in any reasonable time frame, he needs her to leave.

"He didn't testmelike that when I first got here." Her entire forehead is wrinkled up now. She doesn't like this. Ordinarily, Reid would love her for it. Right now, it's inconvenient. He pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Didn't you have jobs before this? I'm straight from college, maybe that's why. And I'm just an intern—he isn't even paying me." Reid doesn't mention his suspicion that Mr. Wright might find him odd and is testing his reliability. He's had experiences where professors questioned his behavior and gave him extra tasks to gauge his reaction, but no one believed him. They always thought he was misunderstanding things.

"Yeah, but profiles?" Marisol is leaning on his desk now, looking for all the world like she might settle in. And that's not going to work for Reid. He sighs.

"I don't know either. But I know that I have to do this. Can you just leave me to it? It won't take much longer."

Technically, that's true. What are a few hours in the grand scheme of things? Nothing, that's what. But he needsthese specific hours.Can he just tell her to get lost? He wishes he could, except she's clearly trying to help him. It's just a bit inconvenient. How is this his life?

"I don't know, I…" Marisol's hesitation and the way she purses her mouth look almost like guilt to Reid. She wants toleave. He feels a rush of relief, mixed with guilt for being happy she feels guilty. But if her guilt means she'll leave him to finish his work, he'll take it. For now. It's one of those little workplace compromises that aren't quite sacrifices but still feel unpleasant.

"Go on, I'll be fine," he says. He even scoots his chair over to her to give her a little nudge. "It's Friday, anyway. Tomorrow, I can just spend the day in bed and read."

He couldn't spend a day in bed to save his life. But that's what normal people do to relax, right? He doesn't want to tell her he wants to be at the farmer's market at a certain hour so they'll still have fresh tulips for him to choose from because if he doesn't have flowers in his living room, it feels sad and lifeless.

"Are you sure? Because you really shouldn't have to do this."

Reid bites down onto his tongue for a moment to keep himself from telling her he agrees. Instead, he just gives her a wan smile. "Of course I am. You go have fun."

Marisol keeps glancing back at him as she leaves, obviously not convinced. But she goes, and Reid returns to his desk to sift through social media, scrutinizing the lives of strangers. It feels especially awkward to revisit Ms. Greene's profile—he knows she wouldn't appreciate him doing this. He's aware not just because of their conversation, but because she's removed every picture of her sick son from the internet. There are still long posts about his symptoms on Facebook, but the pictures are gone. Maybe too many news outlets used them.

Reid works until he thinks he could at least halfway confidently say that he did all that he could. The profiles are still woefully incomplete, but it's not like he can carry out surveillance or interview these people on their motivations. So Reid takes a deep breath, tells himself that it'll be alright, and sends off the email to Mr. Wright. It's not much different from what was happening on Monday, only this time, he takes great care to BCC his private email address. Just in case.

After that's done, he just… sits there. What else can he do? He's finished with his task, and now his head is empty. Even when the screensaver on his laptop turns on, Reid just keeps staring. The way the Californian flag wanders across the screen is mesmerizing. But then a searing pain shoots through his temple to remind him he's been looking at bright screens for way too long. Reid raises a hand to rub at his face, but that just makes it worse.

He needs to get home. Now. In a daze, he gathers his things and heads for the door. But as he moves, the world tilts and his vision blurs. Everything feels floaty and unreal. He hasn't eaten since lunch. When he sent the email, it was 11:20 p.m. What time is it now? Reid shuts his eyes to stop the dizziness and pulls a granola bar from his bag. It's cloyingly sweet, almost painful, but it helps. His head clears slightly, and he can see better.

As he hurries out, doubts creep back in. What if he's doing the wrong thing? What if Ms. Greene gets angry at the meeting next week and lashes out, causing everyone to turn on her? The thought makes his heart race and his palms sweat. These people have enough problems—sick children and no need for a publicity campaign, especially since they've done nothing wrong.

It's only through luck that he hears the footsteps approaching him early enough to look up. Not early enough to do anything about it, though. He tries to swerve to avoid running into the teenager in front of him, but that only means he runs into someone else. At the impact, he attempts to stumble back and apologize, but he can’t. His throat is rapidly closing up. Sour panic coats the back of his tongue.

"We really gotta stop meeting this way," Everett says.

Oh God, no. Not again. How did he manage to do this twice in one week? His heart is thundering in his chest, and he has to turn his head to look directly at Everett to even be able to see him because his vision is beginning to tunnel. This isn't good.

"I'm so sorry," Reid says. His fingertips are pressed up against the wall behind him, but the wallpaper isn't really textured enough to focus on. It's not as grounding as he needs it to be.

---