“We’re a tight-knit group, so pitch in where you can. We always need a johnny-on-the-spot with research. When you’re not fact-checking, feel free to float around, okay?”

“Okay, Mr. Brewer.”

“And bring me some mint from that garden of yours. I want to make tea.”

“I certainly will,” said Lane. “It’s good to meet you, Whitney.”

“You too,” I said.

He shut the door behind him.

Now that I was in front of my editor, I wondered where to start. My eyes roamed over the cedar bookshelves where, among all the atlases and dictionaries, Mort kept a caricature of Nixon, a postcard from Václav Havel, a photo of Katharine Graham at the Black and White Ball.

“So what’s up?” he said.

“I think I’ve got something.”

I brought out my notes and began telling him about Arcade. Mort liked a story that began between the coasts. As I described Floella’s accident, the scene at Ascension, my meeting with Rubicon, I knew I had him. His eyes were looking past me, out to where the story curved like a beautiful landscape.

“This could be a medical breakthrough, Mort.”

I wanted uncritical enthusiasm, but when I finished, he only rocked in his chair and stared at me. I’d never detected chauvinism in Mort, but now he seemed to appraise me almost physically.

He said, “You’re ready for this?”

I felt two cold drops of sweat leave my armpits and scurry down my sides.

“Why not?”

“It’s a very different kind of story for you. Would you feel more comfortable teaming up with someone?”

I could easily imagine one of my more experienced colleagues commandeering the story. But I’d brought it back from the heartland myself, it was mine.

“No,” I said, “I want this one, Mort.”

He observed me, deciding, then stabbed the yellow pad with his pen. “Alright,” he said. “Follow it, Whitney, and tell me what you need, money-wise.”

In the life of a magazine writer, there are no sweeter words.

“We’ve had happy news,” he said. “An investor renewed for another year. We’re flush. I’ll miss you on the culture file, but it sounds like you’ve got to pursue this. In the meantime, do me a favor and chip in copy where you can.”

“You got it.”

“And ask for help if you need it, okay?”

“Okay.”

He extended his hand across the desk. “You’re making me a promise.”

“I am.”

And we shook.

“Very exciting, Whitney. Very nice.”

—

I floated back to my desk. I had to research Dr. Kriss before the interview, I had to learn what I could about Rubicon, and it would be nice to check in with Dr. Massengale, at Ascension Hospital, for news of Floella. Once I knew more about the trial, he would probably be candid with me.

While I was compiling the to-do list, Lane Porter’s orange head dawned over my cubicle.