Business was heavier than usual for the first Monday in November, with a run on hiking and camping survival gear that by mid-day already needed to be restocked.

“Unbelievable,” Amy’s manager Evan Diego said as she followed him into the large storage room underneath the main sales floor where he wanted her to do a spot inventory. In his early thirties like her, but with a family to support, the prematurely balding Diego was a recent immigrant who, as he put it, had “seen much worse than a couple of hours without phones and power.” He handed her a tablet with the expected inventory showing on its small display. “I used to see helicopters and fires every day when I was growing up, except the helicopters were causing the fires.”

“You saw helicopters and fire?” she asked him, noting his use of the plural. “What do you think happened?”

“Someone was messing with us,” he said bluntly as she studied the display, “getting ready to do something worse. Like with the election tomorrow.”

Hearing Diego say it so definitively sparked a sudden feeling of embarrassment. Amy realized that her own speculation was deeply self-centered, a fact that her brother and friends had politely avoided, perhaps in the hope that she would discover it herself.

For the first time, Amy wondered if she had accidentally biased Alex’s views, and in the process jeopardized his ability to do his much more important job. When Diego was gone, she called him to apologize and hopefully correct her mistake.

“Hi, Alex,” she said tentatively when the call connected.

“Are you okay?” he asked immediately, the worry in his voice feeding her guilt.

“I’m fine. Do you have a minute?”

She heard muffled voices, and then he said, “Yes, sure.”

“I’m sorry,” she said urgently, aware she might be compounding her mistake by distracting him from helping someone. “I was selfish before, about why I thought things were happening. Please ignore that, and follow your own instincts.”

He paused for an excruciating couple of seconds, and then gently said, “You’ve got nothing to apologize for.”

“You’re sweet for saying that. But really, you’re the detective. I’m just…”

He interrupted, “The most insightful person I know.”

She found herself fighting back tears again. “Thanks,” she croaked.

“I mean it,” he said forcefully.

She took a deep breath. “Have you heard anything about what’s really going on?”

“Everyone’s still sorting it out.” His voice became a whisper. “Our friends are in trouble, though.”

“Oh, no,” she said, thinking of Derek and then David. “Can you help them?”

“Don’t worry,” he said in a normal voice. “I have to go now. Can I pick you up at your place around six?”

“Yes,” she said earnestly, “I can hardly wait.”