It continues to flow.
The wrinkle’s name was Jimmy Wilkinson, and he was not thrilled to be there. Wilkinson was grew up in the area before he went east to try his luck with the Hershey Consortium; he maybe still knew people, and he probably remembered the roads. That was fine, but I could tell that he visibly resented the assignment, and was annoyed that I didn’t seem to resent him back. I might have, if a smaller amount of money had been on the table. But one-point-five million bucks can pay for a Hell of a lot of equanimity. I’d have worried more if they didn’t send a long an observer, hey?
But it didn’t make it any easier that Miss Serenity made it clear right from the start that he wasn’t in charge. The Hershey Consortium apparently wasn’t a big fan of sugaring the medicine: “You are there,” Serenity told him point-blank, “to make sure Ms. Deckard accomplishes the mission, Mr. Wilkinson. We are paying her for her judgment; we are paying you for your industry. This mission is her responsibility, not yours.”
Wilkinson didn’t like that at all. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it, either. I don’t need to be reminded that what I do for a living can’t be contracted out.