Exhaustion hung heavy in the air of the RNC’s Milwaukee office like the humid summer heat. Audrey Gibson-Cicchino, the coordinator for the Secret Service, dreamt of her flex schedule back in DC. Here, in the whirlwind of the convention, “flex” was a forgotten luxury.
The assassination attempt on Trump had thrown everything into chaos. With the RNC kicking off imminently, Audrey found herself barking orders at a team that mirrored her own reflection in the stale coffee pot - dark circles under bloodshot eyes, faces etched with worry.
Gone were the days of leisurely catching up on emails during her commute. Sleep was a snatch here, a stolen nap there, amidst a relentless barrage of security briefings and last-minute venue checks. The team, a mix of young idealists and seasoned veterans, subsisted on takeout and adrenaline.
Despite the strain, a quiet camaraderie blossomed. Sarah, a data analyst with a penchant for working unconventional hours, took point on threat assessments at night, when her focus peaked. John, usually a stickler for protocol, surprised everyone with his willingness to grab fast food runs at 3 am.
In the crucible of shared stress, their flex schedules became irrelevant. They weren’t working for themselves anymore, but for a shared purpose - ensuring a safe and successful convention. As the first rays of dawn peeked through the blinds, Audrey surveyed her team, a ragtag bunch united by exhaustion and an unwavering determination. Maybe, she thought, with a flicker of pride, flex schedules could wait. For now, they were a well-oiled machine, their unsung rhythm the heartbeat of a secure convention.
This story is fiction
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