We both looked through the window of Mort’s office. He had his head in his hands again.

“I wonder what he’ll do if the Times story turns out to be true,” I said.

“I’m not sure it matters,” said Gordon, and whether he was speaking of the country or the magazine, I don’t know. “It’s already written.”

4.

New York was on orange alert on September 10, 2002, when I finished a rough draft of the story. It came in at over twenty thousand words. There would be cuts, but I trusted Mort to do the right thing and run it long. After all, he’d started the Bystander for stories like mine.

My plan was to read it after lunch and then send certain relevant sections to Kenneth Sample, the CEO of Rubicon, for comment. I was positive I had my facts straight, but for legal I needed the corporate reaction.

I left the office, but with the Donut Shop closed, I wandered aimlessly, sometimes looking into windows or even stepping through doors but never connecting with what I saw or smelled. Eventually I was so hungry I went to the Corner out of sheer desperation.

The Corner was a diner equidistant to the offices of various newspapers and magazines that had become, over the years, a semi-famous media haunt. But it was more for tourists than anything else, people expecting to see journalists with press cards in fedoras. I recognized a few faces, but squeezed in alone at the counter beside an obese middle-aged guy reading the Wall Street Journal and eating steak and eggs. The greasy air made me famished and I ordered a burger and fries, extra patty. I really laced into the thing, letting the juice run down my wrists. It was a celebratory feast. In my head, I carried a brilliant secret, the story.

“Whitney Chase?”

A woman straddled the spare stool beside me. She wore a red suit and white blouse, and leaned hazardously close to the burger I was ripping into like a lion.

Through a big mouthful, I said, “Yeah?”

“Sandra Hart.” Instead of a handshake, she latched a pinkie finger onto mine and gave a little laugh.

I assumed she worked for some publication or another.

“How’s life at the Bystander?” she asked.

“Good, thanks.”

“Really?” Her eyes flashed, the kind of look you have to practice in a mirror. “That’s surprising.”

“Why?”

“I’ve heard there’s turbulence.”

“It’s been a difficult week.”

“I think there are going to be a lot more difficult weeks,” Sandra told me.

I swallowed, dabbed my lips with the napkin, and said, “Who are you, again?”

She took out a business card: SANDRA HART, DIAMOND COMMUNICATIONS, A GLOBAL CONSULTING FIRM.

“I’d love for us to get together sometime,” she said. “If you’re ever looking to make the transition, I can help.”