The nicest thing my parents did was not ask me any questions. It didn’t seem to matter to them what I had done or not done; they loved me anyway. I went camping one weekend with my dad at Yosemite, something I’d always tried to avoid when I was a boy. It was bliss. We drank beer and went fishing and cooked our meals over a campfire. One night after we’d eaten, he asked me in that sweet, serious way I remembered from when I was a kid, whether I had given any thought to what I’d do for a living now. It didn’t matter to him, he said. But if there was any way he could help, I should just let him know. I answered that I was thinking about it.

What I was trying to decide was whether I still loved the craft of journalism. That was the only thing I really knew how to do, and despite my recent troubles I was pretty good at it. I tried to think of other kinds of work I might enjoy, in professions where my firing from the Mirror wouldn’t be such a liability. I could still go to law school, but then I’d have to be a lawyer. I could try to open a bookstore or a restaurant, but I imagined sitting in the place all alone, waiting for customers to come, and how depressed I would feel. I wanted a job in which I would be helping people in some way, but I knew I didn’t have the temperament for something really serious, like being a social worker or a cop.

The more I thought about it, the more obvious it was that my best opportunity to help people—and make a living at it—was by giving them accurate information, in a newspaper. Journalism was my profession, and I had always loved it, even when it didn’t love me. Unfortunately, I was radioactive as far as most newspapers and magazines were concerned. I stood even less of a chance of getting hired by most of the reputable journalistic organs than Rupert Cohen had when he left Liars Anonymous. Even a former spy was more hirable than a defrocked member of the news priesthood.