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A Mother’s Fight Against the System

The military. It’s supposed to be about honor, discipline, and protecting the freedoms we all take for granted. But what happens when the system turns on its own? When the people sworn to defend the Constitution suddenly find themselves abandoned, chewed up, and spit out by the machine?

Felicia Cavanagh knows that feeling too well. March 4 marked two years since the worst day of her life. Two years since her daughter, Sgt. First Class Allison Baile

y was swallowed whole by the Nevada National Guard’s disciplinary process, chewed up, and left for dead.

“There are no words … losing a child. There are no words,” Cavanagh said.

Bailey, a 34-year-old mother of two, had been a model soldier. Then, she wasn’t.

Then, she got accused of harassment. Then, she was out.

Six weeks later, her body gave out—her heart and lungs failed. Seventeen years of service, and in the end, it counted for nothing.

At her funeral, Cavanagh promised, “I will pursue the truth … no matter how long it takes.”

And she has.

She’s been fighting since 2023. Not for herself—her daughter is gone.

But for every guard member who still wears the uniform, who might one day find themselves crushed under the same bureaucratic boot. She found an ally in Nevada Senator Lisa Krasner, who agreed to push Senate Bill 95.

The bill is simple. It closes a loophole.

It gives Nevada National Guard members the right to demand a court-martial instead of being railroaded through the Guard’s internal disciplinary process—where the military gets to play judge, jury, and executioner. Nevada is one of only six states where guardsmen don’t have this right.

Bailey knew what was happening to her was wrong. In 2020, she tried to blow the whistle on what she called a toxic, bullying environment in her unit. But instead of fixing the problem, the Guard turned the problem into her.

They hit her with the military discipline’s internal kangaroo court. An Article 15

A couple of dozen accusations. “Pattern of misconduct,” they called it.

Inappropriate relationships, disobeying orders, late for muster. It was a hit list.

She fought back. She made a video diary and sent clips to her mother.

“The last video she sent me literally was, ‘Mom, I’m going to spend the rest of my life working on this because it’s wrong.’”

But she didn’t have a lifetime to give.

Sexually assaulted by another soldier, Bailey filed a complaint. It went nowhere. The investigation was closed–“insufficient evidence,” they said.

But the disciplinary process against her? That one went all the way. She was demoted, kicked out, and slapped with an “Other than Honorable” discharge.

Dr. Dwight Stirling, a former JAG officer, wasn’t surprised. He’s seen it before.

“The Nevada National Guard can simply predetermine the winner and the loser,” he said. “Then they can write a script that will manipulate the system in a way to get to that outcome.”

Chris Tinsman, Bailey’s assigned military attorney, agreed.

“Not having a process for soldiers to have their day in court is just unacceptable on a constitutional level.”

The Guard, of course, says Bailey got “due process.” Claiming she had a fair shake.

Krasner isn’t buying it.

“This is not equal justice when a member of the National Guard does not have the ability to get a full and fair hearing.”

She’s pushing forward with SB 95, but the Guard isn’t supporting the bill. They say they’re “not for or against it,” but they made sure to attach a price tag—$1.16 million a year.

“Even one court-martial drains resources from the state,” they said in an email.

So now the argument isn’t whether guardsmen deserve due process but whether the state should pay for it. The money, they say, could go to firefighting, disaster relief, and other emergency needs.

Justice, it seems, is just too damn expensive.

But then there’s Dana Grigg, a retired NV Guard JAG officer, calling bullshit on the fiscal note. That the numbers don’t add up, that the Guard is inflating costs–misrepresenting facts.

Why? Maybe because they like things the way they are. And because giving soldiers rights means giving up a little power.

The Nevada National Guard says it hasn’t had a court-martial in nearly 30 years. From 2015 to 2019, when soldiers had the right to request one, not a single one was held.

So why fight so hard against giving them the option now? What are they so afraid of?

Maybe it’s the same thing Bailey feared—a whole system rigged, and the people in charge don’t want accountability. Those who speak up and fight back will be left broken.

Felicia Cavanagh’s not broken yet. She’s still fighting and won’t stop.

Because justice, no matter the fucking cost, is worth more than silence.

And His Apostle of Common Sense

It was a spectacle of democracy, or at least the latest attempt at it, when Vermont’s firebrand, Sen. Bernie Sanders, descended upon North Las Vegas with his faithful disciple, New York Congresswoman Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez. Together, they preached the old-time religion of the common folk against the golden idols of billionaire-backed politics.

The faithful gathered by the thousands at Craig Ranch Regional Park, waiting for hours in the desert sun, their patience stretching as long as the line, which twisted and turned like a snake looking for shade. If ever a revival had the fervor of a camp meeting, this was it.

As the crowd swelled, Democratic Congressman Steven Horsford took to the stage first, warming up the congregation with the familiar gospel of working-class unity. “Bernie knows,” he declared, “as you all do when working people stand together, we have the power to change everything.”

Then came Ocasio-Cortez, known to friend and foe alike as “AOC,” with a sermon against the high priests of finance. “I believe that when a person gets sick, they shouldn’t go bankrupt in the wealthiest country in the history of the world. Common sense,” she proclaimed.

She turned her fire upon the omnipresent Elon Musk, accusing him of taking over the federal government, like another of his vanity projects. “We must get big money out of politics and make clear that our country is not for sale.”

Then, the main attraction—Brother Bernie himself, the shaggy-haired prophet from the Green Mountains, rose to deliver his message with all the subtlety of a lightning strike. “My friends,” he thundered, “it is no great secret that our government is way out of touch with the needs of working families.”

He cast no distinction between the two parties, calling them both beholden to the moneychangers in the political temple. “It’s important to know that we are not going to make the changes we need so long as we continue to have a corrupt campaign finance system.”

The crowd roared, for the words were as familiar as an old hymn, but still, they rang true.

Of course, no sermon goes unanswered. The National Republican Congressional Committee, ever the straight-laced deacons of the opposition, dismissed the affair as mere stagecraft, a sideshow rather than a serious effort to save the soul of the nation. “We’ve seen this stunt before,” scoffed NRCC Spokesman Christian Martinez, calling it nothing more than “billionaire-funded activists staging phony protests to manufacture outrage.”

And so, the battle lines are drawn again, the old war between money and men, idealists and pragmatists, dreamers and cynics. The people of Nevada—many of whom have sworn allegiance to neither party—will have their say soon enough.

Until then, the revival marches on.

The kitchen smelled of spilled beer and old tobacco. My grandfather sat at the table, a chipped mug in his hands, staring at nothing. I had asked him about the war. He didn’t speak right away.

Instead, he coughed—a deep, rattling cough that seemed to start in his stomach and claw its way up his throat. He turned his head, pressing a fist to his mouth. The cough built, raw and wet, until he hacked up something thick.

With a grimace, he pushed back from the table, chair scraping against the linoleum. He shuffled to the sink and spat, turning the faucet on to wash it away.

“Damn lungs never were the same,” he muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Taking a breath, he returned to the table, settling in with a sigh. “Alright, you wanted to know about the war. I’ll tell you. But you listen closely. And don’t you go thinking any of it was glorious.”

He took a sip of beer, his hands shaking just slightly. Then he began.

“The town smelled of rain and coal smoke. There was a charge in the air, the kind that comes before a storm. The war was coming, and we felt it. We were young, stupid, full of pride. The posters told us it would be an adventure, and we believed them. So we drank our beer, slapped each other on the back, and signed our names. All of us together. It seemed right.”

He paused, rolling his thumb over the rim of his cup. “The train took us away, past the fields and homes. The brass band played. Mothers wept. Fathers shook our hands like men already grieving. We waved. We laughed. We told ourselves we’d be back by Christmas.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “The trenches were not what we expected. We had thought of glory. Instead, we found mud. Deep, sucking mud that filled our boots and turned our feet raw. The rats were as big as cats and bolder than thieves. Lice crawled in our clothes. The shells never stopped. Even when they did, we heard them in our heads. We got used to it. A man could get used to anything.”

He set the cup down. His fingers drummed the table once, twice. “Then came the gas.”

He didn’t look at me when he said it. His voice had dropped lower, quieter. “It was late in the day, the sky already the color of rust. A smell like rotting eggs, sharp like bleach. Someone shouted. ‘Gas! Gas! Gas!’ We fumbled with our masks. Hands shook. Some were too slow. The gas was thick, yellow, curling low to the ground. It clung to the earth, to our skin. It burned. Eyes swelled shut. Lungs filled with fire.”

His breath hitched, and for a second, I thought he might start coughing again. But he swallowed hard and went on.

“I got my mask on but too late. I had breathed it in. It was agony. A thousand knives in my chest. Around me, men dropped. Robert clawed at his throat, his eyes bulging. He fell. The gas swallowed him. I heard him choking. He reached for me, but I couldn’t help. There was nothing to do but wait, crouched in that hell, listening to men die.”

He rubbed his forehead, eyes closed. “When it cleared, we moved the bodies. Robert was heavy. He did not look like he had suffered. Some men looked peaceful. Others did not. We dug fast. The ground was soft, and the graves were shallow. There was no time for prayers. I said one anyway.”

I didn’t move. I hardly breathed as my grandpa kept going.

“The coughing didn’t stop. For weeks after, we coughed until our ribs ached. Some men never breathed right again. Others died slow, drowning in their own blood. My lungs burned. They burned for months.”

He looked at me then. His eyes, once sharp, were soft with age but still held the weight of things I couldn’t begin to understand. “We had thought war would make us men. It made us something else. Hollow. Empty. I left part of myself in that trench. The rest of me carried on.”

His voice dropped to almost a whisper. “When I came home, there was no band, no cheering crowd. Just a quiet town and a mother who held me like she would never let go. I told her I was fine. She knew I was lying.”

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. “I lived. Robert did not. Some nights I still hear him gasping for air. Some nights, I still wake up choking, reaching for a mask that isn’t there.”

He picked up his cup again but didn’t drink. “One day, I will see him again. Maybe then I will find peace.”

Silence stretched between us. The clock ticked on the wall. I swallowed hard, not knowing what to say. Eventually, he just nodded to himself, as if closing a door on an old room, and took a slow sip of beer.

I never asked him about the war again–a mistake I often regret.

The Fine Craft of Wage Theft

If there’s one thing the great state of Nevada knows how to do, it’s separate a man from his money. From the clinking roulette wheels of Reno to the dusty poker tables in small-town saloons, fortune has always been a fickle friend in these parts. But now, thanks to a new report from Rutgers University’s Workplace Justice Lab, we learn that the house edge isn’t in the casinos—it’s in the payroll departments of employers shortchanging their employees $122.8 million a year.

Yes, you read that right.

In a state where slot machines hum a never-ending lullaby of luck and loss, the real jackpot is quietly skimmed off the wages of nearly 40,000 Nevadans, cheated out of an average of $3,132 annually. Over the last two decades, that adds up to a staggering $2.4 billion—enough to build a golden palace of ill-gotten gains for the fine folks who believe a fair day’s pay is whatever they feel like giving.

You might think, “Surely this sort of thing is rare, an occasional miscalculation, a rounding error in the grand scheme of commerce.”

Alas, dear reader, it is not. The average employee in Nevada has a 3.4 percent chance of being underpaid.

Take, for instance, personal service employees—those who cut your hair, polish your nails, and press your shirts so you don’t look like you just emerged from a prolonged nap under a bridge. These folks are three times as likely to be underpaid.

Farmhands and food service employees, who quite literally put food on our tables, also get shorted at double and triple the rate of the average Nevadan. And then we have domestic workers—housekeepers, nannies, caregivers—the quiet workforce that keeps homes running smoothly.

They stand a fivefold chance of being paid less than the legally mandated minimum wage–as if working in someone’s private home entitles their employer to private rules regarding compensation.

If you’re wondering how such a brazen practice flourishes, look no further than the history books. When enacting Social Security, certain members of Congress dug in their heels, refusing to extend protections to domestic and farm workers. That fine tradition of selective fairness lives on today, with wage theft disproportionately affecting women of color, non-citizens, and those who dare to enter the workforce without a high school diploma.

You may ask, “What’s being done about it?”

Well, the Office of the Labor Commissioner (OLC) is on the case—with each investigator carrying an average of 113 cases a month, their pursuit of justice is about as swift as a three-legged mule pulling a stagecoach uphill. With enforcement resources spread thin and employers well aware that detection is unlikely, the incentive to pay employees fairly dwindles proportionally to ease, with which they can get away.

And so, the cycle continues. Businesses that fail to register with the state slip through the cracks, employees fear retaliation and remain silent, and those who come forward get met with a system more eager to close cases quickly than to dig deep into systemic abuses. Meanwhile, the $12 minimum wage remains a distant dream for thousands, even as research finds that a Nevadan needs $23.85 an hour to keep their head above financial water.

But fear not, for there is a glimmer of hope!

Nevada’s Secretary of State, Cisco Aguilar, has only just discovered the extent of this swindle—an astonishing feat of obliviousness, given that it’s been happening under his nose since taking office. Now, he vows to work alongside the Attorney General to address the problem. Whether this results in meaningful action or a flurry of strongly worded memos remains to be seen.

In other states, officials are teaming up with tax collectors, reasoning—quite sensibly—that a business willing to cheat its workers is probably just as willing to cheat the government. It turns out that a well-aimed tax audit works wonders.

So what’s the lesson here? In Nevada, wage theft is not a bug in the system—it is the system.

The house always wins, and in this particular game, the dealer is the employer who’s mastered the fine art of picking employees’ pockets with a sleight of hand that puts the best Vegas magician to shame.

Nevada’s Costly Year in Fraud

Nevada consumers, ever the trusting sort, managed to part ways with more than $138 million in 2024, a generous donation to the ever-thriving industry of fraud, says the Federal Trade Commission. The FTC, that diligent guardian of the public purse–or at least an observer of its depletion–received a staggering 24,331 fraud reports from Nevada alone, with victims waving goodbye to an average of $519 per case—enough for a decent steak dinner in Virginia City, if not a few rounds at the tables.

These figures, courtesy of the FTC’s Consumer Sentinel Network, were compiled from a veritable who’s who of consumer protection outfits, including law enforcement, the Better Business Bureau, and other watchdogs that bark but, alas, do not always bite in time. If one includes all grievances—identity theft, debt collection woes, and general financial chicanery—the total number of complaints from Nevada consumers ballooned to 73,271.

And lest Nevadans feel uniquely fleeced, take heart—across this great land, 2.6 million Americans joined the exclusive club of the swindled, collectively losing a record-breaking $12.5 billion in 2024, a 25 percent increase over 2023. Investment scams proved the most lucrative for the unscrupulous, siphoning off $5.7 billion nationwide, while imposters—ever the charming rogues—made off with $2.95 billion.

So, as another year dawns, the lesson remains the same: if a deal seems too good to be true, rest assured, it is—and somewhere, a fraudster is already spending your hard-earned cash.

State Auditors Discover Millions Left on the Table

Upon finding themselves overcharged by so much as a penny, there is a particular breed that will summon forth all the righteous indignation of a tax collector on Judgment Day. And then, there are the fine stewards of Nevada’s Division of Forestry, who, according to a recent audit, spent four years sending men, equipment, and good hard labor to other states to battle wildfires—to the tune of $32.7 million—without so much as asking for a dime in return.

One might call this an act of charity. One might also call it, as the auditors politely put it, “a lack of proper oversight.” Others, less restrained, might refer to it as losing one’s financial senses altogether. Whatever the case, the Division, armed with a budget of a mere $4.5 million, has repeatedly gone cap in hand to lawmakers, requesting tens of millions of dollars to keep its operations afloat, all while forgetting that other states owed them enough to build a gold-plated fire engine.

This fascinating fiscal misadventure came to light when the Division sought another $15 million in 2023, causing legislators to clutch their ledgers in horror and order an audit. The findings, delivered in January, revealed that the agency’s billing department had the stability of a wagon with three wheels, suffering high turnover and bewildering bookkeeping.

Indeed, for years, the Division operated a billing system so antiquated that invoices got counted by the pound rather than the number. When they finally switched to a computerized system in 2023, they found it wouldn’t issue invoices until October of 2024—a notable feature for any accounting program designed to encourage deep breathing and meditation but a poor one for those who expect payment.

Legislators, ever the sentinels of fiscal responsibility, were not amused.

“Somebody needs to make a list and check it twice and pay the darn bills so that we get money in this darn state,” said Sen. Marilyn Dondero Loop of Las Vegas, demonstrating a degree of exasperation that suggests she may soon take to handling the invoices personally.

Efforts are now underway to rectify the matter. A new system is in place, with invoices flying out like embers from a windblown wildfire, and at least a small portion of the lost millions has already recovered.

One hopes that this newfound enthusiasm for billing continues. Yet, the fundamental absurdity remains–for four long years, Nevada’s fire crews were out in the field, braving heat and flames, while the bureaucrats back home failed to remember to pass the hat.

Otherwise, it seems likely that the state’s firefighters will continue their unintentional career as the West’s most generous volunteers—heroes to the forests, saviors of the towns, and Nevada’s most enthusiastic philanthropists.

Well, it seems that Nevada’s esteemed legislators, having exhausted all conventional remedies for the state’s rampant mental maladies, have turned their hopeful eyes toward a most unconventional cure—magic mushrooms. Yes, dear reader, the fungi that once inspired beatniks to gaze at their own hands for hours are now the subject of serious political discourse.

The Senate Legislative Operations and Elections Committee entertained the merits of SJR10, which would beseech federal agencies to reconsider their harsh judgment of psychedelic compounds such as MDMA and psilocybin. The goal? To reclassify these substances in the hallowed halls of drug law so that their purported therapeutic benefits are studied and, perhaps, harnessed for the betterment of the human condition—particularly in Nevada, where the burdens of the mind weigh heavy, and the suicide rate is among the highest in the land.

The bold proposition, introduced by Sen. Rochelle Nguyen of Las Vegas, boasts an impressive 27 sponsors, seven of whom hail from the Republican side of the aisle—proving that, at least when it comes to mind-altering fungi, bipartisanship is not yet a relic of the past.

Now, one might ask, why a sudden interest in mushrooms? The answer lies in troubling arithmetic: A quarter of Nevada’s adult population has wrestled with mental illness in the past year alone, a grim figure surpassing the national average. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and if mushrooms can offer relief where traditional remedies fail, perhaps it is time to consider them in a more favorable light.

Clinical research suggests that psychedelics may aid in the treatment of PTSD, substance abuse, and the melancholy of the soul. Yet, owing to their current classification, those most in need—veterans, first responders, and others who have looked into the abyss—struggle to gain access to such treatments, let alone convince their insurance companies to foot the bill.

John Dalton, a military veteran and advocate for the Nevada Coalition of Psychedelic Medicines, warned that without federal clarity, the whole effort exists in a shadowy realm of legal ambiguity. And if there is one thing bureaucrats despise, it is a lack of clarity.

The good people of the Nevada Legislature have not been idle in this endeavor. Last session, they created the Psychedelic Medicines Working Group, which, in December, advised that the state go ahead and set up a regulated access program for psychedelic-assisted therapy.

In response, Assemblyman Max Carter, another Las Vegas lawmaker, introduced AB378, a measure that would establish a pilot program under the watchful eye of the Division of Public and Behavioral Health. Even a few Republicans have signed on, further evidence that nothing unites Americans quite like the promise of a miracle cure.

Several states—most notably Oregon and Colorado—have already taken steps toward decriminalizing psilocybin, leaving Nevada in the unenviable position of playing catch-up or risk looking like a stick in the mud. When asked why she had chosen to push a resolution rather than outright decriminalization, Nguyen replied with pragmatic wisdom: It is far easier to build a regulatory structure when the federal government is nudging you along rather than standing in your way.

And so, the matter stands. Whether mushrooms will prove to be Nevada’s salvation or just another entry in the long ledger of legislative folly remains to be seen.

But one thing is for sure—never before has the path to mental well-being been paved with so much compost.

In Carson City, lawmakers have proposed teaching the police that not all individuals walk, talk, or think alike, which they believe is a significant revelation deserving four hours of instruction. Senate Bill 380, should it become law, would require peace officers to receive instruction on the delicate art of recognizing and addressing those of our brethren whose wits run along different tracks—specifically, those with autism and other developmental peculiarities.

Now, a learned study of eight-year-olds in the year 2020 has declared that one in every thirty-six exhibits signs of autism, an increase from the days of yore, when such matters went unmeasured and unmentioned. The prevalence of this condition has grown from a mere one in 150 souls at the turn of the century to a more noticeable one in 36, which suggests that either the world has grown more peculiar or science has grown more observant. It notes, too, that boys are four times as likely to be so affected as girls—though anyone with sisters might have already suspected as much.

The purpose of SB380 is to keep the guardians of the law from mistaking a bewildered soul for a belligerent one and thus prevent a tragedy. It’s known that when a man with autism is armed, situations can quickly escalate into unfortunate events.

The bill aims to ensure law enforcement can distinguish between genuine danger and simply challenging circumstances in such moments.

The bill’s champion, Democratic State Sen. James Ohrenschall, in his wisdom, has decided that four hours is the proper measure of enlightenment required to unravel this complex mystery. Not to be outdone, Republican State Sen. John Steinbeck entered SB377, which would grant the Nevada Commissioner of Insurance the power to smite any health maintenance organization that fails to abide by its obligations—an act of retribution most befitting the name of its sponsor.

And thus, the machinery of government grinds forward, ever vigilant in its pursuit of progress, provided progress does not take up too much of anyone’s time.

The great and noble sport of lacrosse—known to its practitioners as a game of skill, speed, and bruised shins—has long been played by the youth of Nevada, though you would hardly know it from glancing at the official state-sanctioned sports. There, one finds football, where the players crash into one another with the enthusiasm of runaway cattle; basketball, where men grow as tall as the law of nature will allow; and even skiing, which is little more than a refined way to fall off a mountain.

But lacrosse? Nowhere to be found.

A few days ago, an army of high school lacrosse players descended upon the legislature, not to raid it–though the idea is not without merit–but to support Senate Bill 305, a measure that would grant their beloved sport the recognition it deserves under the Nevada Interscholastic Activities Association (NIAA). Such recognition would bestow upon lacrosse official funding, oversight, and dignity enjoyed by lesser sports.

“It’s an incredible opportunity,” declared Justin Cutler, President of the High Sierra Lacrosse League, who seemed perplexed that a sport requiring both athleticism and a working knowledge of blunt objects had not already been deemed worthy of officialdom.

Reno High School Senior Maggie Grimes, a team captain, noted that formal recognition might even lure college recruiters westward, granting scholarships to those who lack the funds for “academics and stuff”—an honest appraisal of higher education’s function.

But like all endeavors, resistance is being met–and in this case–tits the NIAA.

Executive Director Tim Jackson, speaking on behalf of bureaucracy everywhere, declared that the bill is unopposed because of the sport but because it attempted to “skip the line,” a phrase which suggests that the NIAA maintains a grand queue of sports patiently awaiting their turn—perhaps just behind competitive lawn darts and synchronized pogo-sticking. More gravely, Jackson worried about the “disproportionality of funding,” insisting that “no one sport is greater than another,” a sentiment that must come as quite a surprise to the football teams of Nevada.

Supporters of the bill countered that they have been waiting for a decade—ten long years of toil, sweat, and sore muscles—for the NIAA to take action, only to find themselves stuck behind an unmoving bureaucratic ox-cart. And so, the matter now heads to a work session in the Senate Committee on Education before making its way through the labyrinth of government, where it may yet emerge victorious—or trampled beneath the hooves of political inertia.

At Least Busier

What distinguishes the great state of Nevada from others is the understanding that a man should be able to wake up in a luxurious hotel, venture downstairs to gamble in peace, and then return to find his bed made, fresh towels provided, and all traces of previous activities discreetly cleaned away by an unseen hand. That, at least, is the vision behind Senate Bill 360, introduced by Sen. Lori Rogich, which seeks to require daily room cleaning in Las Vegas resorts once again.

Now, this bill is not entirely new—it is merely a revival of a rule that first imposed during that period of national lunacy known as COVID-19 when men who once thought nothing of shaking hands or standing elbow-to-elbow at a roulette table were suddenly afraid of doorknobs. Governor Joe Lombardo signed a bipartisan bill repealing such requirements in 2023, declaring that Nevada would return to its natural state of carefree disorder.

However, the Culinary Union, never one to let a lucrative broom lie idle, insists that the repeal of daily cleaning was nothing more than an excuse for resorts to lighten their payrolls. They see SB360 as a righteous cause, a battle to return hardworking housekeepers to their rightful places, armed with fresh linens and the eternal fight against unidentifiable stains.

Lombardo, however, remains unconvinced, taking to his official government X account–which, for the uninitiated, is what they now call Twitter, though no one is entirely sure why–to declare that he sees no good public policy in reviving COVID-era cleaning mandates. For now, the bill’s shuffling to the Committee on Health and Human Services, where it will be debated, amended, and possibly left to gather dust—a fate, one assumes, it seeks to prevent in Nevada’s finest resorts.