“We asked for comment and Quinn declined.”
“You called after hours and left a voicemail.”
She exhales through her nose.
“You’re new here. Let me give you a gift: this is how news works now. We chase attention because attention pays for ink. If you want to write greeting cards about pumpkin patches, the gift shop’s hiring.”
My hands shake, but not from fear.
“I didn’t come back to write greeting cards. I came back to tell the truth about a place that matters. You used my name to sell someone else’s agenda.”
“And that sold papers,” she says. “Front page. You’re welcome.”
I stare at her, at the framed journalism awards on her wall, at the way she’s already looking past me like I’m a problem solved.
I think about fourteen-year-old me filling notebooks in the barn loft, about the girl who believed words could build something.
I think about Dylan’s hands, rough and careful, and the quiet pride in his voice when he said he remembered everything.
“I quit,” I say.
Patti blinks. “Don’t be dramatic.”
“I’m being real.” I pull the press badge from my lanyard and set it beside the paper. “I’ll be posting the original file with mytime-stamped metadata and a statement on my own channels. You can call it dramatic. I’ll call it an apology.”
She tilts her head, pity sharpened to a pin. “That doesn’t make you a martyr. It makes you unemployed.”
I smile, and it feels like cutting a tether. “Luckily, I know how to build something without you.”
I walk out to the sound of scanners burping code and reporters pretending not to watch. The bell over the door gives that same broken jingle when I push into daylight.
For a second the world blurs—anger, grief, humiliation. But underneath it there’s a clear, hard line of purpose. I follow it home.
I climb the stairs to my childhood room in Grandma’s house. The one with the peeling constellation stickers on the ceiling and the carved initials on the windowsill that my mother never noticed. I open my laptop, plug in my external, and pull up the draft I sent last night—my story. The one that held.
I set up my phone on a stack of hardcover Nancy Drews, hit LIVE, swallow once, and start.
“Hey, everyone. It’s Taegen.”
The chat bubbles explode immediately—names from Seattle, old classmates, people I don’t know but recognize from the little avatars who watch my videos while making dinner.
“You may have seen the article this morning with my name on it. I did write a feature about the Carver Family Pumpkin Patch, but the version that appeared in print included ‘context’ I didn’t report, from sources who didn’t put their names on the record. That wasn’t my journalism. It wasn’t the truth I sent in. I’m sorry.”
I breathe and keep going.
“I’m going to put my original story on my page with time stamps and email receipts, but beyond that, I want to tell you why this matters.
“The Carver siblings have turned a struggling farm into a place where families make memories. They built an Enchanted Forest out of scrap and faith. They make cider that tastes like the first day you learned to ride a bike. They employ teens and teach them to show up on time and look people in the eye.”
My heart aches so much, my throat swells. But I talk past it. “They’re not perfect. They’re not rich. They are stubborn, in the best way way—stubborn about community, about keeping land cared for instead of carved up.”
The chat on my video is racing now—hearts, pumpkin emojis, angry faces, question marks. I steady my voice.
“And if you’re thinking I’m biased—yeah. I am. I grew up with them. And I fell a little bit in love with their place all over again this week. Because the woods really are enchanted if you let yourself look. I’ll post a video tour of that trail after this. Take a few minutes, watch it, and tell me you don’t feel something good stir in your soul.”
I swallow around the lump that wants to climb into my voice and make me cry on camera.
“If you can, go visit. If you’re far away, buy from their online shop. Share this. Don’t let a loud neighbor with a hidden motive be the only voice. Let the truth be louder.”
