Mary paused at the entrance to a conference room. “Mind taking a few questions? My students need the practice.”

“You want me playtime-nice or full-on bitch?”

“Just be you.” She reached up, straightened Caitlin’s hat. “Well, try not to swear.”

They opened the doors to applauding students, faculty, and blue-haired literati. Mary walked to a podium and waited for the crowd to settle.

“Last year, for whatever reason, this esteemed university honored me with the title of Dean of the Media School. Since they’ve yet to come to their senses, I’m using my powers for good. Twenty years ago, a bright young student left campus four credits shy of graduation. Despite her lack of parchment, she went on to write award-winning investigative journalism for both print and broadcast media—”

With the crowd distracted, Caitlin wiped the pink lipstick on the sleeve of her gown.

“—and recently published a bestselling memoir about her work to expose corruption within the Los Angeles Police Department. Tonight, it is my pleasure to present the diploma she left behind. Please join me in congratulating our newest graduate, Caitlin Bergman.”

Caitlin fought off a surprising blush and joined Mary at the podium for the ceremonial tassel turning and honest-to-goodness paper diploma she’d never felt she’d needed. She rattled off the required acknowledgments, then pulled the mic closer.

“I understand we’ve got some aspiring journalists in the house.”

A young man’s hand shot up. “Mrs. Bergman—”

“Miss.”

“I’m sorry—Miss Bergman, where are you from?”

“Yikes. I don’t mean to be an”—she shot Mary a quick smile, chose a PG abbreviation—“a-hole, but do a web search for background info first. Who’s got a real question?”

Another hand, female this time. “Miss Bergman, with the decline of print journalism, what are our chances of finding a job after graduation?”

“Now we’re talking.”

She launched into a depressingly honest portrait of the modern world of journalism. Somewhere around the advice “learn to build phone apps or get into nursing,” Caitlin wound back toward hope. “Good writers who present unbiased truths will always find work, but don’t expect to strike it rich. Anyone else?”

A slight British accent broke through, the speaker a dark-skinned young woman. “Lakshmi Anjale from the Daily Student, Miss Bergman.”

Caitlin smiled. She’d spent most of college in the Daily Student editorial office. “Miss Anjale.”

“According to my research, this is your first return to campus in twenty years. With your successes, you could have come for a victory lap at any point. In fact, I understand you’ve been invited to lecture several times in the last decade. Why return now? Will you be working on a story while you’re in Bloomington?”