It's official kid

,” I say. “I will, just as soon as I’ve typed up the transcript from my interviews.” “Take a break now,” she says, in a voice that brokers no dispute. “I need to talk to you.” “Oh.

lo-initiative reporting has been put on pause while management enacts some structural changes.” She says the last two words like they’re sour on her tongue. There’s quiet panic in her eyes. “This is bad,” I guess. “It might be,” she agrees, and it’s her candor more than anything that makes me worry. Booker has always seemed like a queen on her throne, ahead of the curve, doling out the story beats in the newsroom like a commander with her legions. She sighs. “Anyway, we won’

ow,” she repeats grimly. She shakes her head and strides off, and I get the feeling she has a lot more thoughts about the new management than she’s letting on. They’d let Phil go. They’d cut my article, and so many others, without even knowing what they were about. Just a halt on all employee-driven initiative. Departments might get slashed. Whole groups of people, just like Phil. I grab my notepad and head toward the elevators. They might want a puff piece, but I’ll be damned if I don’t ask the new CEO at least one question about what’s going on. I make it up to the fifteenth floor with my heart hammering in my chest. This is what I like doing. Asking tough questions, getting real answers. But I’ll also come face-to-face with someone who now owns the company I work for. The reality of that sets in. One wrong word, and I might be the one to collect my things from my desk and leave. Not that I have many things to collect yet. And if they’replanning on gutting the newsroom, slashing the Globe, junior reporters won’t be high on the list. This whole thing, my dream job, the beginning of my ca