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senior reporter on this story.” I smiled at him sweetly. “But it is my story. You wouldn’t have it at all if not for me. I have angles I wish to follow.” I saw his bent eyebrow. Ignored it. Went on. “And you likely do as well. We’ll set a time to meet before deadline. We’ll look over each other’s stories, edit what’s duplicated, then file it with Mike. He’ll run what he needs under our own bylines or with ‘files by’ bylines if that better describes it.” I’d been talking to Brent, but now I looked directly at Mike. “Sound okay?” I asked him, holding on to each shred of confidence for all it was worth.
    Mike grinned. I was beginning to realize it was his usual expression. “Sounds good. Let’s call it a plan and be prepared to alter it as we go. We good?”
    Brent and I both nodded.
    â€œOkay then,” Mike said. “Because Nicole isn’t based in the newsroom, we have a bit of a logistics problem. Scott is away all month. Nicole, I don’t see any reason you can’t do most of your writing at your desk on the fifth floor. But if you’d rather work here some of the time, or even just when you and Brent need to be in the same space, use Scott’s desk.” He looked us over like he might add something, then changed his mind. “All right, you two,” he said. “That covers it. And if we’re gonna get anything about Marsh into the morning edition, you guys will need to get to it.”
    I knew there was probably more I needed to work out with Brent, but I didn’t know the ways of the newsroom well enough to even start figuring out what they were.
    He caught me while I waited for the elevator.
    â€œGoin’ home?” he asked. It wasn’t a sneer, but it was close.
    I smiled sweetly. “More or less. I’m heading to Features. I will use Scott’s desk, but not tonight. I’ll work better in the space I’m used to writing in.”
    â€œIs that what you do there?” Brent asked, deadpan.
    The elevator came and I walked into it as coolly as possible, not answering him as the doors shut behind me.
    â€œPrick,” I said aloud as the elevator got moving.
    â€œAsshole,” I said to the empty corridor as I walked to my cubicle. And, potty mouth aside, his words, so mildly applied, had hurt. I mean, obviously, I wasn’t going to be nominated for any awards writing about society debs and corporate geezers. Just because the writing I did that appeared in the paper was inane and largely just captions for the photos I took, it didn’t mean I couldn’t write. I could. I hesitated. Then I corrected myself. I used to be able to write. It was so long since I’d done anything like report an actual story that I hoped I still could.
    The first few minutes at my desk didn’t help. The same insecurity that had stolen my words for a while at the crime scene came back and stole them again. I kept second-guessing myself.
    How should a story start? Where was the line that would sum up the whole piece in twenty words or less? What did readers most need to know about the death of Steve Marsh?
    I got up and grabbed a copy of the previous day’s edition, scanning opening paragraphs frantically, trying to size up the perfect hook. What made this one better than that one? What made that one work where this one did not?
    A man charged with the brutal slaying of women near the Commercial Drive SkyTrain station is being held by Vancouver Police though he has not yet been charged with a crime, the Vancouver Post has learned.
    Too much, I thought. Too many thoughts. Too much qualifying by stating the obvious. Emboldened by the ability to formulate a critique, I pressed on.
    Another story.
    Vancouver mayoral contender Campbell Baron is breaking new political ground in B.C. by raising his own money to finance political polling and hire a political staff.
    Lots of