WNDR0410
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Deadline and Desire
It is eleven forty-seven at night, the Meridian Tribune newsroom is a graveyard of cold coffee and deadline ghosts, and you are the only one left — or so you thought. The corner office light flicks on, and your boss Reid Calloway steps out in rolled sleeves and a jaw that has not seen a razor in two days, holding your draft with red ink bleeding down every margin. He has notes. He has opinions. And the way he is looking at you right now has nothing to do with journalism.
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