Now it was the summer of 1977. In a few short months they’d be seniors, ruling their separate schools.

And today was the day Tully had been working toward for months. Finally, she was going to actually step onto the road Mrs. Mularkey had shown her all those years ago.

The next Jean Enersen.

The words had become her mantra, a secret code that housed the enormity of her dream and made it sound possible. The seeds of it, planted so long ago in the kitchen of the Snohomish house, had sprouted wildly and sent roots deep into her heart. She hadn’t realized how much she’d needed a dream, but it had transformed her, changed her from poor motherless and abandoned Tully to a girl poised to take on the world. The goal made her life story unimportant, gave her something to reach for, to hang on to. And it made Mrs. Mularkey proud; she knew that from their letters. She knew, too, that Kate shared this dream. They would be reporters together, tracking down stories and writing them up. A team.

She stood on the sidewalk, staring at the building in front of her, feeling like a bank robber staring at Fort Knox.

Surprisingly, the ABC affiliate, despite its clout and glory, was in a small building in the Denny Regrade section of town. There was no view to speak of, no impressive wall of windows or expensive art-filled lobby. Rather, there was an L-shaped desk, a pretty-enough receptionist, and a trio of mustard-yellow molded plastic lobby chairs.

Tully took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and went inside. At the receptionist’s desk, she gave her name, and then took a seat along the wall. She made sure not to fidget or tap her feet during the long wait for her interview.

You never knew who was watching.

“Ms. Hart?” the receptionist finally said, looking up. “He’ll see you now.”

Tully gave her a poised, camera-ready smile and stood up. “Thank you.” She followed the receptionist through the doors to another waiting area.

There, she came face to face with the man to whom she’d been writing weekly for almost a year.

“Hello, Mr. Rorbach.” She shook his hand. “It’s excellent to finally meet you.”

He looked tired; older than she’d expected, too. There were only a handful of reddish gray hairs growing on his shiny head, and none of them were where they should be. The pale blue leisure suit he wore was decorated with white topstitching. “Come into my office, Miss Hart.”

“Ms. Hart,” she said. It was always better to start off on the right foot. Gloria Steinem said you’d never get respect if you didn’t demand it.

Mr. Rorbach blinked at her. “Excuse me?”

“I’ll answer to Ms. Hart, if you don’t mind, which I’m sure you don’t. How could anyone with a degree in English literature from Georgetown be resistant to change? I’m certain you’re on the cutting edge of social consciousness. I can see it in your eyes. I like your glasses, by the way.”