You too would run, desperate and dogged, if you looked outside your window and found that the horizon was just a line of trees on fire, or if at the sound of a siren, you found yourself waist-deep in muddy waters.

While your country falls apart around you, contacting the local authorities for a passport would not be your first course of action. With thick smog, grey and choking, dirty water dripping from taps, a corrupt unfeeling government, plastic in your child's food, you would not wait weeks—or, months—for permission to escape.

Why is it so hard for them to understand this?

I glare at the news reporter, on the wide screen, as she stands before a swarm of climate refugees at the Silver Valley border and answers the inane questions posed by the anchors in our cushy studio.

"Is it worth the risk of being charged for illegal entry?" The anchor asks.

Illegal entry. I chew the inside of my cheek till my mouth tastes like a wired fence.

Another delay in international help has resulted in a new inflow of refugees from the Iberian peninsula. Their government's failure to handle the drought has been extensively covered by us, but lately we have been reducing the number of minutes dedicated to it.

Prime time hours are precious, and it is the year of provincial elections. It is more important to report on the profiles of the same politicians of the same party, once again.

We are in the conference room where we typically have our rundown meetings. Furnished with a bright marble-like desk, and comfortable chairs; this room is not designed to accommodate more than ten people at a time. Currently, it is holding twice that many bodies. The unlucky half, the newly hired interns, stand all around us, as close as they can.

The one behind me is wringing her hands with nervousness.

I whisper to her when I think no one is looking at me. "It's okay. You should be happy you're working under an executive producer that's giving the crisis any screen time at all."

Ara, our executive producer, is many things but she is not incompetent. I had interned under a few different EPs before landing my job at the Reverent. It had taken just one meeting for me to realize that she was different. The unassuming petite woman that powered The Reverent's edge over other networks.

"I'm willing to give the crisis two minutes after the first block. Nothing more." She declares and quickly moves on.

The new-old template is brought up on to the screen, replacing the live 22nd hour feed. A revised chart consisting of the names of the five districts in our province, the rumored candidates, and the three neat blocks that the prime time segment is divided into.

"We will be covering each district one by one by the end of this month. We want to provide a brief idea of the most pressing issues in each district, and how they have—or, have not—been handled since the last elections." Ara explains with her eyes angled towards the interns.

They listen attentively, and my heart clenches in recognition. When did this ambition and righteous anger disappear for my colleagues? When did they turn into these drones, walking along chain-link fences, speaking over the pleading masses, asking questions like, "How can we just let anyone and everyone in? What about our quality of life?"

Ara continues. "We start with Northside obviously, because that is where we are based." Lie. We start with the district of Northside because that's where the money is.

"We move over to our neighbours, Bex and Redbridge. We spend an entire week on their overlapping issues. Then comes Westside, and finally, Everton."

Ara tilts her head towards some of the bored senior employees and remarks pointedly. "Don't be fooled by the template, or your familiarity and knowledge of the many district-level issues. This is the most unpredictable and volatile period of reporting. Small mistakes can have disastrous consequences. Unexpected candidacies lead to complete overhaul of plans."

"For example." Someone from the back cuts in. "Councilman Hamdi's candidacy for Everton last term." 

My spine straightens at the mention of his name.

"Exactly." Ara nods. "And then he won, and we had to stay overnight to help the website create a new landing page." 

Someone adds. "Nobody saw it coming."

Now I'm fidgeting with my hands underneath the table.

Ara looks at the interns with a deceptive smile. "This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Try your best to work under different junior producers. Learn from them as much as you can. Be available to them at all times. You can moan and cry about it but you are never "off-the-clock" at the prime time team. And if you wish to be, I will be happy to put in a word for your transfer."

No one blinks. The determined look on their faces does not waver. Let's be honest, they would never have been invited into this room, if they had not already swallowed that bitter truth.

"Once parties officially announce their nominees, we move from district-level issues to focus on the politicians, themselves. Now, this is difficult to do because then campaign season will begin. New information will be pouring into our newsroom minute-by-minute." Ara says. "So, candidate research begins now. I will ask London to break all of you into teams."

Oh.

Their curious blinking eyes turn towards me. The sudden announcement gives me no more than a second to compose myself. 

I have to force a smile.

Dealing with interns is the worst assignment for a junior producer here. They are clueless, they are clumsy, and supervision takes time away from pitching a decent story.

Oh, wait. I know why Ara's doing this.

"I—uh—will be happy to." I say, quickly recuperating. "We typically form two groups, one small and one big; nominees from every district and candidates from every district—" Their lips curve downward at that—"Don't get disheartened being on the candidates team. It is way more work and ridiculously important. Trust me."

A young man, clutching a tablet against his chest, raises his free hand like he is in a classroom. He asks. "Could we get a chance to be on both teams?"

"No!" Voices overlap mine.

We ignore the baffled expressions of the interns as we break into laughter. It's the kind that gurgles out of your mouth after you've just escaped grave danger.

Last term's disaster can never be repeated. Accidentally swapping or losing key pieces of information regarding politicians is not only a professional failure but an ethical one.

"Okay. I think this needs to be spelled out." I calm myself down, and look at the young man directly. "We have five seats in the provincial council, one from each district. So, let's just look at one district as an example, alright? We know the council-member from Northside is retiring. He has already hinted at who will fight for his seat from his party, so we know that she will be the AFD's nominee for Northside. However, as important as it is to be the face of a district, when it comes down to numbers, people in all these little counties in our district won't be as concerned with her history as they would be with the candidate from their very county. Someone who would directly make an impact on their lives."

Ara gracefully sits on the edge of the table, and adds on to my explanation. "Researching candidates may not sound as cool as researching nominees but that's where the numbers flip an entire district's fate. Even though we know that none of these county-candidates will be on the council, a vote for them is a vote for the party's nominee of that district."

A fellow producer takes the initiative to change the screen to a map of Northside. It is marked in bright yellow and divided into twenty neat counties. The district sits in the North-east corner of our province Odile, which looks like a dull-gray splotch in the background.

The young man slouches his shoulders, looking unconvinced. His eyes dart from Ara, to the screen, to me. I squint at his name tag, "Kai."

He raises his hand again. "But whoever is on the nominees team, gets to work on the future president of the provincial council. Someone who will lead our province for the next four years.  It still seems unfair that only a few of us would get that chance—"

"It's a tried and tested system." I cut him off, coldly. "We know what we are dealing with. Just trust us, Kai."

From the corner of my eye, I notice that Ara is watching me with an amused smile. It's almost a snicker.

"What?" I feel self-conscious.

"Nothing." She taps her manicured fingers on the table and looks away. "I like you, Kai. It will be nice to see London get a taste of her own medicine."

A rumble of laughter envelopes the room again. I resist the urge to roll my eyes at my colleagues. I don't mind the teasing.

"On that note, Ara—" I begin.

"Oh, come on." Ara groans.

The laughter doubles, and I have to be louder to speak over the noise. "I would like you to reconsider giving Block C to the Bill on Refuge and Asylum that is—"

"—Being passed tomorrow." She finishes my sentence in a way I would not have. "London, stop it. Why should I cover a bill that we know will pass unopposed?"

Abbas, our technical director butts in. "She's going to tell you that we are the second opposition." A producer next to him slaps him on his shoulder.

Ara points her finger at me, getting ahead of it. "Do not dare give me that shit."

"I was not going to!" I protest. I jerk my hand towards the screen as if it was still displaying the live newsfeed. "But don't you think it is incredibly relevant right now?"

"It has been relevant for three decades!" Ara answers. "If there was a debate there, I would cover it—"

"There is a debate there! Councilman Hamdi has been leading it."

I do not know why my eyes scan the room for an ally.

That brief pause is enough for someone else to jump in to voice their opinion. "Come on, London." They huff, clicking their pen in a rhythmic fashion. "You have always run point on him and his party. You have to have noticed that his speeches against this Bill, paled in comparison to his previous speeches."

"That—"

"—He's going to let this one go." Another junior producer pitches in from the back. "This close to elections, if he votes against the Bill, the other candidates will rip him to shreds. His polls will tank."

I lean forward, pressing my elbows against the table, trying to get as close to Ara as possible. She holds my gaze as I speak. "Then we should talk about the Bill before the vote. Tonight. Maybe see both sides."

I can feel myself plead.

Some may laugh or even call me crazy but I have always been able to read Councilman Hamdi. All the other politicians are reinforcing the hollow fears of their constituents, but I know he does not want to do that. He would never vote in favor. He just needs our support.

I have to help him.

The packed, heavy air in the room feels heavier when Ara raises a palm to stop someone else from interjecting themselves into the debate. Then she leans in, with her hands pressing against the reflective table, holding my gaze.

"I am not going to block off any number of minutes to discuss the consequences of a stricter policy." She says, slowly. "It's sappy. I don't want sappy, okay? There needs to be heat. Their needs to be a demand."

"There is no demand for a reason." I say, in a low voice. The stillness of the room is unnerving. "We are next-door to a crisis, and we are changing our policy in such a specific manner. Its like we are responding to it in—"

"This isn't even a drastic change, London." Ara raises an eyebrow, dismissively. "Most people don't know or don't care."

"But they should! We have to tell them. That is our job."

Ara sighs loudly, the way she does to mark the end of an argument. She tilts her chin upwards and looks at me with an indecipherable emotion in her eyes. Assertive, yet playful, yet bitter.

"I'll tell you what, London." She says. "Why don't you book him then, for an interview?"

For a second, I believe that I've heard her wrong. Book Councilman Hamdi? She must be joking. She can't stand him. 

I am the first to break eye contact. I search the other faces in the room, waiting for one of them to burst into laughter. But no one does. This is not a joke. 

Everyone looks as stunned as me, waiting for me to respond first.

"But..." I finally start. "I can't. "

Now, some nervous chuckles sound out from around the room as if I was joking.

"What do you mean 'you can't'? You are incredibly well-versed with grassroots organizations, you know his political profile front-to-back. If anyone can, I believe you can." Ara replies in a tone that some may mistake as flattery. "Book him, and I will give you fifteen uninterrupted minutes."

Speechless, I blink back at her. There is no way for me to guess her intentions behind this offer. A joke, a challenge, or a genuine opportunity—who can tell?

Though one thing is clear: she is setting me up to fail. This is the same network who has called him a criminal on more than one occasion. He has publicly criticized us, over and over again. He would never agree.

"How would I convince him?" I ask without thinking.

"Not my problem." She smiles.