“If you don’t think I do good work, then—”

“Sit down,” he ordered as she started to rise. He knew the drill. She would storm out, slam things around, glare at him through the glass, then make sure her next piece slid in only minutes before deadline.

“It so happens I think you do good work. Not that it matters a hell of a lot coming from me because you don’t have any confidence in or respect for my skill or my authority. I guess that makes it tough for you because you’re a journalist, we’re the only game in town, and I’m in charge. I don’t see any of those factors changing. Next time I ask for twelve inches, give me a solid twelve and we won’t have a problem.” He tapped the tip of his pencil against the desk while she gaped at him.

Perry White, he mused, might’ve handled it better, but he figured he was in the ballpark. “Anything else?”

“I’m going to take the rest of the day off.”

“No, you’re not.” He swiveled back to his keyboard. “Have that piece on the elementary school expansion on my desk by two. Close the door on your way out.”

Flynn went back to typing, pleased when he heard the door click closed instead of slam. He waited thirty seconds, then shifted in his chair enough to look through the glass wall. Rhoda was sitting at her desk as if paralyzed.

He hated confrontations like that. The woman used to sneak him gumdrops when he would come into the offices after school. It was hell, he decided, rubbing his temple and pretending to concentrate on his work. Just hell being a grown-up.

HE escaped for an hour in the afternoon to meet Brad and Jordan at the Main Street Diner. It hadn’t changed much since the three of them had gathered there regularly after football games or for late-night bullshit sessions that had revolved around girls and life plans.

The air was still ripe with the smell of the diner’s signature chicken-fried steak, and the counter still held a four-tiered display rack of that day’s pies. As Flynn looked down at the burger he’d ordered out of habit, he wondered if it was the diner that had gotten stuck in the past, or himself.

He frowned at Brad’s club sandwich. “Trade me.”

“You want my sandwich?”

“I want your sandwich. Trade me.” To solve the matter, Flynn switched the plates himself.

“If you didn’t want a burger, why’d you order one?”

“Because. I’m a victim of habit and tradition.”

“And eating my sandwich is going to solve that?”

“It’s a start. I also started breaking habit by reaming Rhoda out at the paper this morning. Once she comes out of shock, I’m pretty sure she’ll start planning my demise.”

“How come you wanted his sandwich instead of mine?” Jordan asked.

“I don’t like Reubens.”

Jordan considered, then switched his plate with Brad’s.

“Jesus, are we finished playing musical plates now?” Brad scowled at the Reuben, then decided it actually looked pretty good.