Look at the first son, sitting uncomfortably during a long, arduous, discussion panel. Look at him try not to fidget or be rude by checking his phone to see how much longer he has to be here. See him shoot furtive glances off stage towards Derek, his handler and secret service agent, pleading with his eyes for Derek to make up some emergency to get him out of this. “Fake an bomb threat,” he attempts to emote with eyebrow raises and a particular tilt of his head. “Maybe a sniper has been spotted,” he urges with the twist of his body in his chair. “An emergency in my pants that only you can take care of,” he screams with a drag of fingers across his lips and the recrossing of his legs.