Harry swallowed. “Cripes. I’m sorry,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “How long ago—?”

Her lip was trembling. “May.”

“What was his name?”

“Bobby Granholm. Robert.”

The name rang a bell. “I remember when that happened. When we heard, I mean. We ran it on page one.”

“Yes. Thank you.” She smiled a little.

Harry sighed, threading his pencil between his fingers. He certainly had grown sick of every week having to run another story about a local boy killed in action. Even last week, there’d been a story about a boy who’d been a Jap POW over on Bataan since 1942 whose family had had every reason to think he was still alive, as they’d received a postcard from him in August. But last week they had learned that he’d actually died of starvation in March. Harry had sent Tinnanen out to get a quote from the mother and father; he hadn’t had the stomach to face them himself.

He looked up at Miss Wallace. “Is your brother all right?”

She smiled. “Yes! Yes, thank you. He was wounded, but not badly, we don’t think. We’re expecting him home any day.”

“That’s great,” Harry said, meaning it. He sighed again, then stood. “Miss Wallace, I’ve bothered you with enough questions for today. Why don’t I come out to the hospital—tomorrow? Will you be there?”

“Yes, in the afternoon.”

“Four o’clock all right?”

“Yes, that will be fine.” She stood, held out her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Mickelson. For taking time in your busy schedule.”

He grasped her hand a moment. “No trouble,” he said. He walked around the corner of his desk to lead her to the door, which he then opened for her, letting in the tumult of the newsroom again.

She stopped, looked up at him with another pretty smile. “See you tomorrow, then, Mr. Mickelson.”

“Sure thing.” He watched her walk across the office, open the door, walk out. When the door closed behind her, he realized that Maggie had been watching, too, from behind her desk.

“Isn’t she a little young for you?” she said.

Harry ignored the rib. “That’s the Red Cross girl from St. Francis, remember? Anne Wallace. We did the two features on her, last November and last April. She’s asked me to do another. She said they need to raise more money.”

“Oh!” Maggie said, returning to her typing. “Well, in that case, she must have her finger on you. Knows just who to come to for a good, sappy story.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “She lost her fiancé. Killed over in the Pacific.”

Maggie stopped typing and looked at him a moment. “You’re quite a pushover, Mr. Mickelson,” she said.

He smiled, then turned and went into his office.