The phone rings and you’re on a plane before you understand the story you’re about to cover.

It’s a rush of adrenaline for sure— part nerves, part energy. You have a camera and your experience. You’ll have to figure it out. On the plane you research the story, develop a plan, and contact the local crew— whom you’ve never met. Thankfully, the desk found a hotel near the airport. We’ll have a home base.

We’re two months into a shutdown that nobody yet grasps. All we know is people are catching this thing and dying in extraordinary numbers. You’re living in an N95 and going through hand sanitizer by the bottle.

The story will mark a national shift. It’s a hot-button issue and the public is taking sides. Our coverage calls for objectivity and accuracy (but really, when does it not?) Any copy you write needs to be edited through those lenses. Is the reporting fair? We should find an opposing view to give the story balance and an authority for perspective. You make new contacts on the ground. My reporter knows a few NBA players who have shown up to protest. You work the story.

You get word that a vigil will be held at the intersection near the grocery store. An opportunity to collect photos, b-roll, and interviews with mourners.

The network set up a platform to host the nightly news— you exchange some time on their stage for an interview with the host. A Live U and a cell phone are lifelines back to the studio. You packed a voiceover mic and an iPad to send photos. The rental car becomes a makeshift VO booth.

You and the crew have spent 14 hours shoulder to shoulder with tens of thousands, mostly unmasked, who have come out to protest and grieve. If you didn’t have the virus, you surely do by now. The story is too important. You press on.