“When did he get there?” asks Carrie, her eyes on the television as Jonathan explains the next steps for the rescue operation.

“Last night, I think. He took the last flight from DC.”

“So did he work all night?”

“Probably. I should think so.”

“He doesn’t look tired.”

“He’s used to it. He’ll catnap.” Everyone is tired in hard news, all the time.

“You guys must be so good at that,” Carrie comments. “Catnapping, I mean.”

“I suppose.” Jonathan is offscreen now. I collect myself and turn my attention to Carrie. Conscious I’ve been giving her abrupt replies, I add, “I can do it just about anywhere. But I’m especially good in bed.” The ribald joke slips out before I can stop it, a knee-jerk newsroom habit, where the mantra has always been that if there’s an entendre that can be made double, by all means go ahead.

Carrie’s eyes jump to mine in surprise, and she laughs. It’s an appealing sound. I remember her giggle from when she was a child. Pete used to tickle her all the time: not the ribs as you’d expect—Carrie’s weak points were her knees and her calves. She’d scissor kick and roll around, and the laughter would huff out of her in wheezes and bursts. It’s gratifying to hear her laugh again. Perhaps she doesn’t want to ruin the moment, or perhaps I was wrong earlier; either way, her gray eyes hold nothing but the return of my own smile.

•   •   •

Later I lie in the strange bed, curiously unsleepy for someone who claimed to be able to sleep anywhere. I texted Jonathan before I went to bed (nothing momentous: Arrived at the Manse. It’s rather yellow. Knackered and going to bed, speak tomorrow. Stay safe xx), but he hasn’t replied. There’s nothing to be read into that, he’ll be madly busy with the story. Not that it’s a real story to me yet; it hasn’t taken shape in my mind. Jonathan cautions all newsroom newbies to let the facts speak for themselves, but they don’t, they never do. Facts need to be shepherded and woven into a tapestry of human reactions and interactions, and then they don’t speak—they sing.