Ugly. Underfunded. Alive.
Gil has two coffees on his desk when I arrive.
“No,” I say.
He doesn’t look up from his screen. “You don’t know what it is yet.”
“You bought strategic coffee.”
“I bought coffee.” A beat, while he finishes the line he’s reading. “Profile McAllister.”
I do not sit.
“No.”
“Ryan McAllister has been profiled by everyone with a keyboard and a working adjective.”
“Then write the one that isn’t worship.”
“He’s a controlled-access story.”
“I know.”
“That was not a selling point.”
He sets the pen down. “It’s the only point. Controlled access is where everyone’s afraid to look. You go look.”
I sit because leaving has become too satisfying, and I do not like handing men theatrical victories before breakfast.
“The team will wrap him in PR,” I say. “Fifteen minutes. Communications in the room. Approved anecdotes about youth clinics and discipline.”
“So don’t write what they hand you. Say no to the chaperone.”
“You hired me because I came cheap after California.”
The room goes too quiet.
My phone is off, but I feel it anyway. The version of myself my father can still summon with one word.
Gil does not ask.
That is one reason I have not quit yet.
“I hired you because you notice what people try to hide,” he says. “Don’t waste it being cheap.”
“That can become a liability.”
“Only if you decide the ending before you report the story.”
Ryan McAllister looked like he wanted control so badly he could taste it, and for one stupid second in that hallway I wanted to know what happened when he lost it.
Gil leans back. “Request a sit-down, practice observation, limited team access. Jennifer handles their communications. She’s good — treat her like she’s good.”
“If she gives you a door, check for hinges.”
That sounds too much like California.
My phone stays dark in my bag.
