The line redials for the third time, and the ringing echoes inside Emir's car. I grip my seat as tension mounts. My palms leave a damp print against the leather. Emir swerves to the side of the road and pulls up next to a line of old high-rises. 

"Come on. Come on. Come on," He mutters. "Pick up."

We're both holding our breath, staring at the glowing screen of the car's central system, and waiting for the call to go through.

"Hey!" Dakota's panicked voice follows after a click. "Sorry, I was on my rounds. What's wrong?"

We curse out loud at the same time, exploding with relief and frustration. Our bodies collapse against our seats like stretched pieces of elastic that have finally been let loose.

"Uh, what's happening? You're making me worry, Emir," Dakota's raspy voice interjects.

"I'm making you worry?" Emir asks incredulously. "I'll tell you what's happening and you're going to be completely honest with me. Did you or did you not visit London at the hospital?"

"Why?" she asks.

"Well, did you?"

"Yes." Her voice wavers.

"Come on." He groans in frustration. "I asked everyone for one thing. Just one thing. Don't go to the fucking hospital. Out of everyone, you should have known better."

"I'm sorry." She sounds miserable. "I was so worried and I just thought—"

"Yeah! So was I! That's not a good enough reason." Emir shakes his head. He takes his hand off the steering wheel and places his elbow near the window.

"I'm sorry. I really am. Did he find out?"

"Of course he did. He's been tailing us forever," He mutters in reply.

"Johnson's been following you since before this?" I interrupt.

"Who's that?" Dakota asks.

"It's London. I'm driving her back from the headquarters. Johnson asked her to sign a statement framing someone," Emir replies, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Oh, fuck. Not that." She groans. "London, did you do it?"

"No," I reply hesitantly. I notice that I'm biting my nails, and I stop immediately. "I'm sorry. Maybe I should have?"

"No, no. It's good that you didn't. Gendarmes do this to get rid of people on their radar. Usually, people they haven't been able to prosecute for one reason or the other," She explains. There is some ruffling at her end. "So, it was me, right? I was the bait."

"It's going to be okay," Emir's says softly. He leans closer to the central system. "You just need to act fast. Where are you? Are you still stationed close to Silver Valley?"

"Not at all. I left two weeks ago. I'm at the camps bordering Ivo."

"Oh." Emir's face lights up with hope. "Listen to me carefully. You need to leave that province right now. Get to Afra as fast as you can. Only stop in a People's Independent run district, and I'll call it's councilmember personally and tell them that you need help. They still owe me."

"Got it." She replies firmly. "I'm leaving right now. I'll wipe all my gadgets on the way—"

"No! Smash them, separate them, and bury them. You have to get rid of it completely. If they arrest you in the next twenty-four hours, they can still recover information."

"I should call Cherry. She's going to worry."

"Of course. I'll talk to her as well." Emir nods at the small screen. "We're going to keep helping you, okay? No matter what happens."

"Emir, don't go soft on me," Dakota replies, and I can hear the smile in her voice. "I've been ready for something like this ever since I met you. Talk to you soon."

The line clicks.

Emir leans back in his seat, and runs his hands through his hair. I feel like I'm on a tightrope. I want to step forward and reach for him. Console him or say something along the lines of 'hey, she'll be okay,' but I don't know if I'll make it there without choosing the wrong words. They'd all feel empty coming from someone like me anyway.

When he begins to drive, he switches on a channel where the host is reading out submitted stories. They're all related to meet-the-parent disasters. I haven't processed a word but as the chattering continues, I watch Emir visibly relax. Nevertheless, his dark angled brows stay knit together as he focuses on the road.

The passing street lights dapple against the dark interiors of the car. The neon strips on the road glow brightly under the moonlight. Nightlife in the city feels like a different world. Friends, lovers, and families; they all hold hands and cross streets. They talk, laugh, and pour in and out of shops and restaurants, like people in magazines.

Out of the corner of my eye, I'm studying his face. Blue, red, and purple lights flicker across his brown skin, his sharp nose and his clean-shaven cheek. 

"You're staring." His voice startles me. Instinctively, I place a hand on my heart.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to," I apologize sheepishly. 

He turns to look at me for a second and a small smile rests on his lips. It's disarming.

"How has your health been?" he asks.

"I'm doing well." I offer a smile in return. "It's going to be my last month of physiotherapy. My appetite is back too." 'Does this feel surreal to you?'

"That's great to hear." He nods and looks over again. "I'm sorry about everything. And I don't just mean the shooting—"

"It's fine," I reply quickly. "You didn't mean for any of this to happen." 'And by 'any of this,' I mean, the last time I was this close to you, I thought a part of me was on fire.'

"It's still not okay. You shouldn't have to deal with this," He adds gently. A yellow light slows us down, and yellow streaks cover my lap.

"How long has he been after all of you?" I ask without a hint of hesitation.

Emir glances at me, then looks ahead at the road.

"I met him when he was investigating Judge Hart's death. I had quit the prosecutor's office, and he wanted to ask a few questions. He seemed nice then. I didn't think much of him. Later, I found out that I had been in his crosshairs for a while. He was a starting officer when I was arrested the first time."

"Why did you do it?" I ask, shifting in my seat so I can look at him. His eyebrows draw together in confusion. With a relaxed grip on the steering wheel, he casts a quick glance in my direction.

"Did what?"

"Hang the mascot. Burn the mascot," I reply in a matter-of-fact manner.

"Aren't people tired of hearing me answer that question?" he asks rhetorically.

"Well, I don't want the interview-polished-story." I drop my pitch to mimic his voice. "I was in a tough place in my life. It felt like the last straw. When I passed by that mascot, I was blinded—'"

"I sound nothing like that."

"It sounds like something your lawyer made up."

"Because it is something my lawyer made up," He replies, and a natural smile lights up his face. My eyes widen at his honesty. I didn't really expect him to admit that. He's still a Councilman, and as far as I know, Everton will stay unchallenged.

Deciding to push my luck, I silently wait for him to continue. He catches on and sighs in resignation.

"Off the record?" he jokes.

"No, this is definitely making the homepage of our website."

I catch him suppress a smile before he begins. "In high school, I was pretty involved in speaking forums. We used to do those mock parliamentary sessions to discuss world peace and cooperation, picking countries, and playing a profile."

I could see that.

"The heat flashes in Germany were at their peak at that time. I don't know if you remember, but our province had led the debate in shutting down our national borders again. Someone added this as a theme to the upcoming session and I thought 'who cares?' The week before we played out the scene for a deadly epidemic in some country, and the week before that was about a civil war in another. I kept thinking 'who cares?' Nobody was listening. Our blog was pointless. This was an after-school activity at best. A performance of sympathy at worst."

"So you wanted to...what? Do something so that they'd have to listen?"

"Pretty much. My lawyer told me that if I criticized the immigration laws on record and framed the incident as a protest, the judge would not sympathize with me. When I didn't make bail, I shut up and played the part." He shrugs. "Then, I criticized them once I was out."

"You're luckier than most," I add. "I bet having a family in law helped."

"Foster family," He curtly corrects me. It feels like I'm in trouble, but then he looks at me with an amused glint in his eyes. "You're reading up on me?"

A blush creeps up my neck. "Of course," I reply and then quickly add, "for the interview." 

"Right. The interview. I hope you didn't get into trouble?" He sounds concerned. "Northside gets a disproportionate amount of attention in every campaign. We just had to shoot our best shot."

"Surprisingly, I didn't get into trouble." I shrug, and he refocuses his attention on the road.

"Do you like our candidate Jeremiah?"

"Oh, he's great," I respond without wasting a second.

"But?" He raises an eyebrow.

"Where did he come from?" I ask, almost rhetorically. "He's never steered a big ONA project. His social media has no political posts. He was a ghost right up until his last county election. Did you pick him and train him? What is it?"

"You'll be shocked but people can be advocates without posting about it, or wanting their name in a large font on the by-line," He says, tauntingly.

I scoff. "Not someone who plans to run for office."

Emir doesn't reply. He stops the car at a crossing and watches the herd of people walk over to the other side. 

"Why Nutrien?" I ask.

"Christ, are you ever not on the job?"

"I'm not working. I'm just a curious person. Tell me, why Nutrien?"

"It's a rotten corporation." He answers without missing a beat.

"I could name at least five other corporations that are just as bad," I say. He doesn't respond. He only agrees noncommittally and drives forward as the crowd dissipates. I continue to think out loud. "So, it's about the scholarship program."

Emir exhales deeply, pressing his lips into a flat line. It's suddenly so quiet. All I can hear is the muffled sounds of the city at night time, the clicking of the turn signal, and the air conditioner. I lean my head against the window replaying the interview in my head. Mulling Jeremiah's words over and over again until a small knot forms in my stomach.

"You're not wrong." He finally responds. "It's about protecting corp kids. On top of that, if there is anything that can unite people, it's children."

"That's true," I say slowly. There isn't a reasonable person who would disagree with their core idea. 'You shouldn't hurt children.' It's undebatable unlike their more well-known stance—don't hurt immigrants.

"There is nothing too political about it. It's a good cause, and it hits a sensitive spot for everyone," He adds with a slight smile. "Especially in a province with the fastest increasing birth rate."

A small laugh escapes my lips. I turn towards him. "You're reading up on me?"

"Helped my case."

"I wrote that article years ago, and our print director did a fantastic job burying it. I'm impressed you found it," I remark.

"Why was it made so inaccessible? I thought it was interesting. Our budget allocations should be changing if our population is increasing," He says casually as he pulls up at a traffic light. 

"That's what I told them!" I exclaim loudly, startling him with that sudden burst of energy. "I thought it was so illuminating. I made a fuss until it got the attention of our network's president, but he didn't agree. He doesn't like me much."

"He liked you enough to let you direct the interview." Emir points out.

"It's not like that went smoothly," I reply. "It's just a bad day, I guess. I certainly didn't see this coming. Thought I would go home and eat a tub of ice cream"—I turn my face to look at him—"I have to ask, how'd you know that I was at the gendarmerie headquarters?" 

"Which flavour?" He deflects.

"Chocolate. Classic." I quickly reply, and continue prodding. "How did you know, Councilman?"

"Someone told me. And anyway, the real question is: 'why didn't you call your lawyer?' I wouldn't have had to come at all."

"Why would I call my lawyer to go give my statement? I'm the victim."

"London, if you hadn't taken the shot, I would have. You're the criminal." He quips. 

My cheeks flush in embarrassment. I struggle to justify my poor judgement. "How was I supposed to know that you and Johnson have something going on?" I huff.

"It's not about me and Johnson. He's a gendarme. All they care about is the story. If it sells, then their work is done. You should know this! You always call a lawyer first. Next time, it should be the first thing you do."

Next time?

"I'm fucked then." I sigh defeatedly. "I don't know how to explain what just happened to my lawyer. I don't know if he'll believe me. He's an old family friend—so I don't say anything—but he's an AFD nutjob."

"I hope you don't call people 'AFD nutjobs' in your workplace or among your friends," He replies. Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, he passes me his phone.

"Of course, I don't." I say, taking his phone hesitantly. I'm not sure what to do with it.

"Swap numbers. I'll set you up with a good lawyer. She's a senior associate at my old firm and someone you can trust."

Surprised, I mumble a quick thank you and bump our phones together to pass the details. The edges light up in confirmation, and I hand it back to him.

"Only call or text through the Laser application." He adds in a much softer tone of voice. "We don't want to leave more breadcrumbs for Johnson."

"Okay." I pause, fidgeting with my phone in my lap. "Please update me on Dakota. I want to know if she's safe."

He looks over at me with a kind smile. "Of course."

We have reached the quieter side of the city now. Fewer billboards, long and decorated balconies, empty sidewalks.

"You know, I'm surprised you guys are running for elections," I say cautiously. I roll my head against the headrest to look at him. "Didn't you believe they're rigged?"

"Makes them difficult and unfair." He replies in a small voice. "But not impossible."

Suddenly, I find myself on that tightrope again. I want to tell him that I found that old Reverent article that he was talking about, and that I wasn't aware of how the district lines had been drawn. I want to say that I've changed my mind since our last conversation, but I'm sure it means nothing to him.

We slowly approach a familiar row of buildings. The windows glow like floating lamps, and a woman in a frilly nightgown stands in her balcony, smoking a cigarette.

The alley lying between the building and the block park is empty. Emir pulls up next to the park fences—directly opposite to my address.

The building's porch has strong pillars and leads to a lobby, which is empty as well, except for the doorman and the flood of light from the hanging chandelier.

"This is it, right?"

"This is it."

The engine stops. I sit still for a moment and then unbuckle my belt.

"Thank you for driving me."

"I'll let you know about Dakota as soon as I find out," He says. I nod my head in acknowledgment. Another moment passes, and I haven't moved. He hasn't asked me to hurry.

"You have a nice place." He breaks the strained silence.

I smile awkwardly. "It's my parents'. I've been staying with them since"—I swallow my words—"They just wanted me around longer."

"As any parent would."

"No. I think they just feel guilty for not spending time with me when I was younger." I laugh as if it's funny. He holds my gaze.

"Are both of your parents doctors?" he asks. His curiosity feels strange. Is he aware that I know every public detail about him?

"Yeah," I reply. "But my dad doesn't practice anymore. He's on the medical board so he only handles administrative work. Mum still practices. Chief of surgery at the hospital I was transferred to."

"Will they be worried about you being late?"

"No. She works well into the night, and my dad usually hangs around the club. I'll be fine." I smile and put my hand on the door. "I guess, I'll see you around?" 

As I begin to leave, he says something incoherent.

"Sorry?" I sit back down.

"I feel like I owe you an actual apology," He says quietly as if he is tossing a stone over the bridge to measure the drop. "I'm sorry if I was a dick to you on the day of the donation. You were already there to help, and I made a superficial judgment about you."

My eyes gleam with surprise. I'm quite taken aback. "Thank you for saying that." I reply.

One foot in front of the other, I try to reach over to his side. The rope is thin, but swallowing my words hurts more. I sit in his passenger seat, staring at my hands. I don't know what to do with them.

"I have to say," I start. "I think I have been naïve. I mean—I had the most absurd morning today. Trust me, I have wanted an opportunity as big as today's interview for years. I have worked so hard to get here but the point was to be able to help people and be honest. Today didn't feel like honest work at all."

I look over at him as if for permission to continue. His expression is unreadable. He stays silent, listening intently.

"We prepared for the interview by going through everything the ONA has been involved in. Then, we left out anything that could upset the people who should be upset."

"If you want to climb the ladder, that's something you'll have to cope with right now," He finally replies.

"I know that." I sigh. "But now, I'm not sure if a higher rank changes things. They're still bound by their contracts. If the shareholders of our network disapprove of our content, they make it known. And I don't want to end up in the same position as my bosses. I don't want to be anything like them."

"So what do you want?" He asks.

"I don't know." The light at one of the windows turns off. "I think I want to see Jeremiah put a bullet in Mark Hubert."

Emir laughs for the first time. It's a lovely, familiar laugh, and I instinctively smile.

"I want to help anyone who was treated the same way," I continue. "I want to help the kids still stuck there. I want to do something that makes noise." My voice cracks. 

I'm so angry all the time. It barely feels like anger anymore.

Emir pauses for a moment. Then, he asks, "Can't you?"

I shake my head. I'm too small.

And my arm feels heavy. A sudden dull throb on my shoulder reminds me that I forgot my evening dose today. I look out of my window at the empty porch still waiting for me.

"I should go," I say softly.

He courteously wishes me a good night, and I push myself out—shutting the door behind me. My feet move hesitantly towards the porch as my heart tugs at me to return.

I stop in my tracks; the car is still there. Emir is waiting for me to enter the gates.

I take a deep breath and march back towards him. Jerking the door open, I ask, "Do you have paper, by any chance?" 

He swiftly grabs a notebook from his dashboard, and I take the passenger seat. Neither do I say anything to ease the confused look on his face, nor does he ask what I plan on doing with it.

I pull a sheet from the notebook and grab the pen jammed into its spiral. He switches on the white light.

"They're going to bring up Jeremiah's records. Apparently he had a few black marks for being unruly. Our associate producer only found one source by the end of the night but we've still been told to run the story tomorrow. Find someone to discredit them."

"Then, look into her"—I scribble down a name quickly—"another victim who is being interviewed tomorrow. She was at the same unit a few years before Jeremiah and had also filed a complaint. The grievance cell took care of it immediately. The Telegram posted Nutrien's comment an hour after the interview, and Nutrien brought up her case. Something about it all feels wrong."

"Why does it feel wrong?" His eyes squint under the harsh overhead light. I hand him the paper.

"Their relations head reached out to us and helped us book her for tomorrow. It feels like a cover-up. I don't think she's choosing to do this out of her own will." I lean forward and point towards another name on the paper. "That's Mark's foundation. They pour a lot of money into orphanages in Everton. If you look into them—"

"Maybe we'll find something." He completes my sentence.

"Exactly." I nod, slightly caught off-guard.

He pinches his lips together and with a sad smile, he adds, "You're right. They are hiding something in their orphanages. They've been adopting kids from there."

"What." I stare at him in shock. "How? Corporations can't adopt from orphanages. You need a parent to permit the contract, otherwise, it's not legally binding."

"Doesn't stop them." He shrugs, and stuffs the note into his coat pocket. "We'll address it in time, but right now, it's not something everyone would find appalling or wrong. Some may even call it benevolent."

"You were ready for people to start praising Mark's charity work." I say, mostly to myself.

"Yeah. We were also prepared for the typical backlash to Jeremiah's character."

"How?"

"You'll see."

I eye him skeptically. "Just tell me."

"I don't know if I can trust you."

"I just risked my job for you," I retort. His expression softens. 

He pauses for a moment, before leaning closer.

"You were right," He says. "Nutrien isn't the only rotten corporation in this town. But right now, out of five elected councilmembers, two of them are Nutrien puppets. One of them was on their board of directors. Another one is engaged to their head of Operations Control."

"I know the former is Councilwoman Kerry, but who's the other one?"

"Zach Young."
​
"Zach Young!" My jaw drops. Without thinking, I add, "The New Emir?"

Emir's nose scrunches up. "I have no idea why the media started calling him that, and I absolutely hate it."

With a dismissive motion of my hands, I explain in a rush. "Because he's a progressive young man who does well with a younger demographic. He made AFD "cool" enough for the kids. The nickname is bullshit, but catchy."

"It is bullshit." He stresses. "Zach's the most spineless man I've ever met. All talk, no show."

My heart sinks. I almost whisper, "I thought he was one of the better ones."

Emir switches off the light in the car, and the darkness envelops us again. 

He grimly comments. "You asked me how they get away with adopting kids illegally, you have your answer."

"Fuck." I curse, massaging my forehead with the tips of my fingers. "Don't let them get away with praising Mark and burying the rest of the conversation. People should realize what Nutrien really is."

"Oh, we won't let anyone get away with it." Emir smiles.

"So really, what comes next?"

"Take the bus. You'll get a good view." 

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