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right? We’re eager to hear what you’ve come up with.” With that, she heads toward her office.
    Apparently I’m dismissed.
    Making an Oscar-worthy effort to appear calm, I carefully and quietly reclaim the tape of Melanie’s interview and trudge to our office.
    “Franklin.” I slam the tape and notebook on my desk, and throw my bag onto the extra chair. “Never mind about looking up Brad’s classmates. Listen to this. Listen. To. This.”
    I’m probably setting a new land-speed record for talkingas I replay the morning’s chaos. Franklin actually turns away from his computer to listen, muttering supportively and sympathetically in exactly the right places.
    I wind down a little as I get to the end. And now, morning utterly wasted, I collapse into my chair.
    “You’re a full-blown Prozac candidate,” Franklin says. “They’re just trying to do what they think is right down there, Charlotte. It’s not about you, you know?” He takes a tissue from a box in his drawer and rubs an invisible scuff off one loafer. “Plus, admit it. You’re like—” he looks up at me “—an approval addict. You know? Sometimes—”
    “I’m not addicted to approval,” I interrupt, dismissing his assessment. “I’m addicted to success. You know how it works at this place. If you’re not hearing yes, you’re hearing no. And no is bad. Soon it means no job. ”
    And already today, I remember for the millionth time, they’ve decided not to put my face on TV. Twice. Maybe I’m some sort of chronological time bomb. Programmed to disappear. A twenty-first–century Cheshire Cat. Soon all that’ll be left here is my smile—on videotape.
    Franklin gestures at the awards-ceremony photos I’ve tacked on the wall. “Twenty Emmys. You have twenty Emmys,” he says. “You’re at the top. You’re Channel 3’s golden girl.”
    “I didn’t win last year,” I remind him. I glance at the photos. I’m wreathed in smiles, arms around an array of Franklin’s predecessors, all of us holding golden statues. I see Sweet Baby James’s face, too. Someday I’m gonna Photoshop that man right out of the shot, I think wryly, just the way I did out of my life. “And face it, Franklin, I’m pushing the demos. If they only want eighteen-to forty-nine-year-olds watching, why would they want someoneolder than that on the air? Do the math,” I instruct, my voice bleak. “It’s just a matter of time before it adds up to goodbye, Charlie.”
    “Like I said. Prozac, girl. And something good will come out of this morning, you just don’t know what yet.” Franklin the philosopher. This is what he always says. “Besides, I think I might be on the track of a possible story.”
    Franklin pauses for a moment, waiting to see if I’m paying attention. And I am. If Franklin’s got a lead, a good story trumps sullen.
    “Aztratech,” he goes on. “Pharmaceutical company. Very fast track. I also uncovered a bunch of industry newsletters warning pharma companies in general about the latest attack on their bottom line—whistle-blowing employees.”
    I deflate. I hope Franklin doesn’t think that’s new.
    “Any employee can blow the whistle on their company,” I interrupt. “We did a big exposé about it, couple of years before you got here. They can rat them out for ripping off the government. If it turns out the company was doing something illegal in a federal contract—overcharging or cheating or something—the whistle-blower gets part of the money the feds recover. And that can be incredibly lucrative.” I shrug. “But sorry, Franko. Not new.”
    “Yeah, but listen,” Franklin persists. “I found one of those whistle-blower lawsuits has just been filed against Aztratech. The name of the whistle-blower is secret, apparently because the financial stakes are so enormous. Not to mention dangerous to the whistle-blower.” He leans forward intently. “So, do you think—”
    If I were in a cartoon, a big lightbulb would appear