As the industry had begun to sense decline, many people had been switching over to more lucrative positions at communications firms like hers. But I’d never felt more like a journalist than I did that day.

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

No rejection registered on Sandra’s face. “Just want to keep my name in the mix,” she said.

“Well, you’ve done that.”

When she got off the stool and left the Corner, the man beside me said, “I like how you handled her.” He had bushy orange hair and a red bow tie. “These consultants are growing like weeds, choking out the profession.”

“I guess so.” I asked for my bill.

“Journalists have to stick together, stay the course. We’ve got to keep the faith. So you’re at the Bystander.”

“Yes.”

“Fine magazine,” he said, “very fine.”

He looked at me until I said, “I assume you work in media?”

“Retired. That’s Dow Jones for you, the mandatory ax at sixty-five, no exceptions. I was at Barron’s for thirty-nine years. I worked my way up from the mailroom, no kidding. I can do it all. I can write features, set the type, fact-check. I can toss a paper to your doorstep like Johnny Unitas.”

“It’s good to be versatile,” I said, counting out the tip.

“I still have a lot in the tank. That’s why I like to mingle with my colleagues here, keep my ears peeled, you know, in case something opens up.”

The Corner was almost empty. The waiter was wiping the counter around us.

“I’d better get back to work,” I said, and for some reason pocketed Sandra’s card.

“Wait.” He quickly wiped his hands on his pants. “I’ll give you my number.”

“That’s alright.”

“But you don’t even know my name.”

I pushed the door twice and then saw it was a pull.

5.

A few days after reaching out to Kenneth Sample, I got an urgent message from his assistant on my cell. I’d only listed my Bystander extension in the e-mail but didn’t have a chance to ask how she’d found this number before she asked if I’d be able to interview Mr. Sample soon, “maybe this afternoon?” We could meet at the headquarters of Rubicon’s parent corporation, Inland Medical.

For the last time in my life, I packed my notebook and recorder, along with a copy of the story. I took the subway to 51st and found Inland’s address on 3rd Avenue. The tower was sheer glass, wavy with blue reflections, and the revolving doors were flanked by Union Jacks.