"You’ve killed it," Sarah cried on the third night, looking at the slim stack of paper. "There’s no soul left."
"If you shout, they hear your anger. If you write the truth clearly, they hear the crime. Sit."
As the newsroom erupted in a rare moment of celebration, Sarah went to Elias’s office to thank him. The door was open, but the desk was clear. No coffee cups. No red pens. Just a single note left on the proof sheet of her story.