He’s different today, angry. But maybe it’s just that call he came off from.
He inhales deeply and flicks the pages, clearly frustrated.
“Is it okay?”
He raises his eyebrows as if unimpressed. I frown.
“A seismic weather event is hardly breaking news, is it?”
“Well, what do you want me to write about?” I stammer. “I can’t name a person or place or anything because it’s fake news. I don’t want to get us sued.”
“I am well aware of what it is, Ms. ,” he snaps.
“What’s wrong with you today?” I whisper.
He flicks the pages as he reads.
“Nothing.”
He reads on.
“This won’t do. I’ll write it myself.”
I frown.
“I spent four hours on that last night.”
He looks up from the papers, and I wither under his glare.
“Well, what do you want me to write about, then?” I ask.
“Anything but f***
