“That’s a good idea. My cousin Elfrida was complaining about how much it costs to get the kids ready for school. Of course,” sniffed Phyllis, “she didn’t have to go and have five kids.”

“Then I guess I can count on you to bake something for the sale. How about those whoopie pies everybody loves so much?”

“No way, José,” said Phyllis, touching up her Frosted Apricot manicure. “I’m on the Atkins diet and if I so much as look at a carbohydrate I gain five pounds.”

“It isn’t the looking…” began Lucy.

Phyllis rolled her eyes. “Listen, do you know what it’s like to give up bread and pasta and cookies and eat nothing but steak, steak, steak? Do you realize I can’t even eat a baby carrot?”

“It must be tough.”

“It’s agony. And if I make whoopie pies I won’t be able to stand the temptation. I’ll eat at least half of them.”

“I understand,” said Lucy. “You have lost a lot of weight.”

“And I plan to keep it off, no matter how much bacon and whipped cream I have to eat.”

“Why does there seem to be something wrong with this picture?” mused Lucy, pulling her mail out of the box and flipping through it.

“I know. It’s crazy, but it works. It really does.” She sighed. “Pizza is the worst. You can’t eat the crust.”

“Good lord.”

“I know. And hamburgers. No bun.”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” said Lucy, as the bell on the door jangled announcing Ted’s arrival. “It’s this letter.”

“What about it?” asked Ted. His hair was still wet from his morning shower and, in contrast to his usual preoccupied scowl, he was grinning, relaxed, and practically exuding geniality. He was always like this on Thursdays, before the irate readers’ phone calls began.

“It says the varsity football players have been hazing the JV boys at their training camp.”

“Who sent it?” Ted was studying the editorial page; he hadn’t found the typo yet.

Lucy studied the sheet of typewritten paper and the envelope it came in. There was no signature, no return address. “It’s anonymous.”

“Throw it in the trash,” advised Ted, picking up one of the papers and admiring the front page.

“But maybe there’s something to it.”

“You know our policy, Lucy,” he said, turning to page two. “We don’t print anonymous letters, we don’t follow up anonymous tips. We’ve got to know who our sources are…DAMN!”

“I don’t know how we could have missed it,” said Lucy, carefully choosing a plural pronoun.

“APPEALS B-O-R-E-D!” Ted’s eyes were blazing. “I’ll never live this down.”

“Probably one of them Freudian slips,” said Phyllis. “Those Appeals Board meetings are deadly dull.” She shrugged. “It’s not like anybody reads those stories.”