She went on, “Yes, he’s one of the panelists. If you’ve seen, you know sometimes he derails things, he always looks for his producer in the back of the room to get the go-ahead, or to make sure they have the clip while he’s asking a question, hoping they give an answer that contradicts the clip. It used to go over real well, but it doesn’t anymore. Once they find a schtick, they tend to overplay it or exaggerate it over time, and it’s not playing so well now. He asks the question or launches into the speech, and the moment there’s a weakness, he goes after it until someone makes him stop. He shouts people down, gets condescending. The majority of the audience doesn’t like it, so he’s supposed to be stopping.”

“He looks offscreen, then the trap? Or the rant?”

“Yes. Lynn likes jokes. Keep her laughing and the mood will stay good. John Combs is less predictable. He does his own research. If it’s good research he hits hard. If not… he’s anyone you might see on the street, but with a nice jacket.”

I smiled.

“I’ve got to go run more errands to get us all ready. I will be back to check on you before you go in.”

“Thank you… you didn’t tell me your name.”

“Kaylar.”

One maybe-ally in this whole mess, a bit of information.

Ashley had one raised eyebrow on her face as she looked at me. Everyone else was focusing on the television screens.

“Ask someone for help, and they’re in your debt.”

“Not the other way around?”

“People want to be helpful,” I said.

“That might just be you.”

“It’s true of all of us. Helping us made her feel more important. It made her a part of things. People are grateful for that.”

“There’s no use in it for me,” she said. “I’m not the type to ask for help.”

“If you ever feel the need, remember that the other person is probably waiting for you to do it.”

She offered a dismissive sniff of the nose and shook her head.

The assorted parents were leaving the room, free to retrieve their children while the end credits rolled. Ads were playing on the one side of the screen.

Leaping from family-friendly news to something more controversial.

The door of the room with the green stripe opened. It was Gary Nieves who walked through. He was solidly built, his hair short and dyed to mask white hairs, his clothes rustic. With a wide waistband, he relied on suspenders to keep his pants up, and a tailored suit jacket to hide his suspenders.