“I’ve never lost my cool like that in a press conference before,” said the mayor. She exhaled, shut the office door, and threw her portfolio on the mahogany desk.

“You haven’t. I don’t think anyone was prepared for that,” replied her deputy, his eyes cautiously meeting hers. “You have to remember, this crisis has affected everyone in that audience, every reporter, every parent in this town. They all know someone who overdosed. It’s not political for them; it’s personal.”

She sunk into the leather swivel chair. It rolled almost as emphatically as her eyes.

“I know it’s personal, and I know they’re suffering, but it’s not my fault. I didn’t prescribe Oxycontin to anybody. I didn’t kill anyone. This town is too small to be creating such massive issues for itself. But I’m doing everything in my power to help, and it’s my job to be political—”

“It’s your job to serve the people of this village, and you simply cannot lash out at every heavy question a News 12 correspondent throws your way. Think of how it looked to the people in that auditorium, their foremost public servant behaving like a child because she didn’t appreciate a very valid question about three opioid deaths in one week.”

“I didn’t see it that way.”

“Well I did.”

There was a painful pause. The mayor said nothing.

“Listen, I’m not trying to make this any more difficult than it already is. We need to release a statement. An apology. We can’t just let this go,” said the deputy sternly.

“What am I supposed to say? ‘I’m a bad, bad mayor?’ That I should resign before I start shrieking at every journalist and addict and family of a victim in this town? That I’ve been nothing but a disappointment to everyone who’s ever trusted me? That I’m a petulant, incompetent piece of—”

“‘I didn’t mean to hurt you’ would be a decent start.”

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