The office was buzzing. Interns and junior staff members scurried like scared mice, delivering coffee and papers and pushing around carts of binders and books. Elena Fisher sat at her desk. She rubbed her forehead - she couldn't work in this overwhelmingly busy environment. Her network was being bought out by some obscure corporation she knew nothing about, and some major changes were coming. Everyone was nervous. Layoffs, show cancellations, and salary cuts were all in store for the helpless studio staff.
This pressure of being possibly fired or demoted hung on Elena's shoulders. Her show, Modern Mysteries, was a huge hit, accruing millions of viewers every week her show aired. In fact, it was responsible for a huge portion of the network's profits. But she heard that the new owners weren't big fans of scientific journalism or investigative reporting - they were more into pretentious reality television about pregnant teens, coke-snorting reprobates, and unruly housewives. She, for obvious reasons, was not enthused.
She felt a tap on her shoulder. It was one of her interns. "Hey, Mrs. Fisher, the director wants to see you." Elena's heart stopped. What did Georgina, the studio head and manager of the company transition, want with her? She couldn't handle being fired. Her job, her career - it was her one connection to reality. It stopped her from being overwhelmed by the quiet desperation and distress caused by her divorce.
"Hi, Georgina, what can I do for you?" Elena asked, trying to sound pleasant and constructive. Her nervousness was biting at her, like a relentless bloodhound.
"Elena. I'm going to be direct. Your show, it's, well, marvelous. It has singlehandedly brought untold success to our struggling studio."
Elena was confused. Was this going to be a good meeting or a bad meeting? She struggled to calm down. In many ways this made her more anxious. "Oh, uh, thanks. So, why am I here?"
Georgina's bright smile vanished. This was not a good sign. Her voice became tense and stern. "Elena. You know you're my favorite. You've been like a daughter to me, all these years." Elena didn't know what to say.
"But," Georgina ominously continued, "the new studio owners, they, uh, they do not find your show as spectacular as I do." Georgina pushed a file labeled "Show Cancellation Information" towards Elena.
Electrical shocks spread throughout her body, paralyzing her. All the desperate angst, the bitter sadness caused by Drake's sudden departure, all the days of sleeping next to his warm body, all the hours of staring at computer screens, churning out award-winning journalism were for nothing. All these memories and moments crashed down on her like a tsunami. Pressure grew on her upper back and neck. She wanted to cry.
"But my show's done so much for this damn studio-"
"Luckily," Georgina interrupted, trying to assuage her pained protege, "you're not fired. We need somebody on local news. There's an opening, and we're going to make a new segment called 'Local Mysteries', where you go around examining things like haunted taverns and interviewing people like that forty year old man who ran naked on the field during the UCLA football game."
Elena sank into her chair. From renowned television personality to interviewer of naked old men. "Oh, gee, thanks, Georgina. You wanna know what you're doing? Let me tell you. Let me enlighten you. You're taking a baby away from her mother, right, and you're thrusting some random kid from halfway around the world into her arms! I'm not meant for 'News'. I'm not meant for anything but my show. I've given up so much, literally everything, you know, my life, my husband, I gave up my husband for this job, and this is what I get. You know what? Screw you!"
Elena stood up dramatically. She didn't exactly know what to do next. Dammit, Nate, she thought. He had influenced her.
Georgina sat understandingly. She knew the pain of being fired, or demoted. But it was out of her hands. She didn't say much. It was best to let the people sitting on the other side of the desk to figure it out themselves without the patronizing, diminishing input of others.
Dejected, Elena surrendered and asked meekly, "When do I start?"
"Tonight. We need you to go to Boston. Cover the whole stealing of Mozart's violin story. Of course, it's only a four-minute segment." She held up an economy class ticket. "You get to spend three days there, that's nice, right?"
Four minutes. From a whole hour time slot with twelve million viewers to just four minutes on the six o'clock local news.
The first thing Elena did when she got back to her desk in the middle of the chaotic office buzz was call one of her girlfriends from college who lived in Cambridge, Massachusetts.
"Hey," she said, "Know any cute guys in the city?"
The once unbeatable ace reporter was now the emotionally deranged, lost, unaware, distressed, and unfortunate owner of a local news segment.
What matters so much about the damned violin anyway? Elena asked herself.