Nicole sits at her dresser turned desk staring down the barrel of a webcam. The sound of a soft ping reminding her that she’s in a Teams waiting room, waiting for her editor to start the call. With a scrunchie pulled over her wrist, she ties back the black dreadlocks of her hair into a ponytail, a choice she makes to avoid them falling into her eyes as she takes copious hand-written notes during calls. The bedroom of her tiny three-bedroom London flatshare barely has the space to host both her rest and work, but she makes do. She is tenacious and resilient, and still believes that skill and perseverance will guarantee her a bright career. For now though, she’s an editorial assistant, working for a tabloid. A stepping stone, she reminds herself. The call starts 10 minutes late. She knows Dave isn’t late accidentally. It’s one of the many pearls of Etonian toffee wisdom that he’d graciously bestowed on her during his winding and meandering rants. “Always keep them waiting Nicky, remind them who’s in charge”. Nicky wasn’t her name, no one except Dave called her that, but again, she swallowed her pride for the sake of her career. As yet another meeting started, she wondered why she didn’t just join 10 minutes late, safe in the knowledge that Dave would only just have arrived. “Nicky you on?” He’d ask, completely dependent on her to keep a record of what was discussed. Dave Holmes was the health editor. Although she wasn’t sure of the truth to the stories, his last editorial assistant apparently quit after one too many unwanted passes. “Yes, Mr Holmes, I’m here”, she responds, giving a little forced smile as she looks up from the notepad in front of her to the camera on her laptop. “Good, let’s begin, Miller, how’s that story on health tourism coming along”. Another little piece of Nicole died as she recalled the initial outline Miller had filed. It was a hit piece on immigrants, designed to villainise them for using essential health services. Nicole’s mum had herself migrated from St. Kitts 40 years ago, and she wondered if she was looking down tutting at her with that characteristic disapproval. Then again, mum also read this same newspaper ever since coming to London in the late 70s, so maybe she’d be agreeing with her. The meeting traipsed on through various stories, big and small, until reaching the story of St Dunbarton’s hospital’s zero death streak. “Harrison, good call on the St. Dunbarton’s story - Dunbarton Magical, great headline, really popular on digital. Send over your notes, I’ll be taking over for a frontpage story tomorrow.” Dunbarton was a fluff piece, when Nicole did a final editorial pass before submission - something that Dave delegates to her so he can clock off early for a round with some of the other editors - she saw it as a mountain out of a molehill. 3 days without a death was impressive, but hardly the challenging journalism she’d hoped for. “If that’s everything off you go you turds, get me some more stories”, Dave’s typical sign off was tired when she first heard it. Said in a tone to make it sound joking, she was convinced that in some respect he did see some of his subordinates as faeces and treated them with the same disdain. “Nicky, hold on”. On mute, Nicole sighed, only dreading what he could possibly want from her that she wasn’t already doing. “It’s my understanding that Dunbarton is now into its fourth day without any deaths, and I’m going to go up there personally to cover it.” “Do you want me to book a hotel for you?” Nicky said, assuming that he was saddling her with the clerical task of making his itinerary. “Well yes, but you need to book two rooms, you’ll be coming up with me to help do some interviews, manage my schedule, put stuff on the internet etc.” Nicky clenched her fists, a little excited at the prospect of actually doing some reporting, even if she can only imagine the logistical and administrative torture that awaits her. “I’ll book the train tickets now” she says steadying the excitement in her voice **** I was sat doom-scrolling through my Twitter feed over breakfast. It had taken longer than expected to get back from John’s race the night before after most of the motorways had been closed for changing streetlights, or something. My Prius was not as up to date with traffic information as it needed to be and I found myself on the side of the road more than once googling directions. The pot of black coffee sat reassuringly next to me, to make up for the lack of sleep from the night before. I sipped it as my feed slowly flooded with news that Dunbarton’s had gone a fifth day without a death. It had now gotten to the point of public attention where the Department for Health and Social Care’s press team were releasing updates on the streak. I looked up across the room, almost in anticipation - like a great evil had stepped in and sure enough at the door, Dave Holmes. I don’t like Dave. From the moment I met him I found him arrogant and entitled. I don’t know if there’s a right reason to get into journalism, it often crosses my mind that wanting to tell people what to think or what to think about was inherently arrogant. But, if there was a wrong reason to be a journalist, Dave was a journalist for that reason. He waved at me across the room and I smiled back at him. I, of course, never let on that I didn’t like him. Sat at a small round table he crossed towards me, in tow a petite black woman with a satchel across her chest. “Ahh Adam, Carmen sent you up here did she?” He said, with a tone showing how much of a vacuous story he thought it to be and a hint of disbelief that someone who might want to investigate it should be here. “Something like that, where’s Sarah, Dave?” I retorted standing up and looking at his companion - using the opportunity to take a potshot at the previous assistant that the grapevine believed he was supposedly sleeping with. I shake his hand as he goes for a chair at my table and I turn to the woman. “Moved on to greener pastures, this is Nicky” I offered her my hand and we shook, “Nicole” she corrected him sitting down too. “You don’t mind do you?” He asked. Permission is an afterthought for people like Dave, he always believed his presence is desired everywhere it graces. “No” “So are you in town for the magic hospital as well?” he said, trying to confirm the reason I was there. “Is magic what we’re calling it now” “It’s what we’re calling it” he replied, emphasising the “we’re”. “And it’s what people are calling it” he paused with a certain smugness “But then you were never one to please people were you Adam?”. “I suppose that depends on if you think news is supposed to please people” I shot back with a strained smile. “Quite.” His phone rang and he stood up to take it I turned to Nicole, and smiled, “Your boss is an arsehole” I said bluntly as he left earshot. “I’m aware” she said with a tone that conveyed she knew but had very little control. “I’m sorry”, I thought about offering her some advice but decided it’s best to leave it. I don’t know why she took the job, but - I suspected - beggars can't be choosers. I got up, smiled at her and started to leave. She broke her silence just before I left. “You don’t think it is magic, do you?” she said, turning around in her chair just as I was about to leave. I paused and sighed a little. “I don’t know, but, every day that goes by, we have to wonder, don’t we?”