At one p. m. " Brazil had just logged onto his computer and gone into his basket to retrieve his police academy story, when his editor sat next to him. Ed Packer was at least sixty, with fly-away white hair and distant gray eyes. He wore bad ties haphazardly knotted, sleeves shoved up. At one point he must have been fat. His pants were huge, and he was always jamming a hand inside his waistband, tucking in his shirttail all around, as he was doing right now. Brazil gave him his attention.

"Looks like tonight's the night," Packer said as he tucked.

Brazil knew exactly what his editor meant and punched the air in triumph, as if he'd just won the US Open.

"Yes!" he exclaimed.

Packer couldn't help but look at what was on the computer screen. It grabbed his interest, and he slipped glasses out of his shirt pocket.

"Sort of a first-person account of my going through the academy," Brazil said, new and nervous about pleasing.

"I know it wasn't assigned, but…"

Packer really liked what he was reading and tapped the screen with a knuckle.

"This graph's your lead. I'd move it up."

"Right. Right." Brazil was excited as he cut the paragraph and pasted it higher.

Packer rolled his chair closer, nudging him out of the way to read more. He started scrolling through what was a very long story. It would have to be a Sunday feature, and he wondered when the hell Brazil wrote it. For the past two months, Brazil had worked days and gone to the police academy at night. Did the kid ever sleep? Packer had never seen anything like it. In a way, Brazil unnerved him, made him feel inadequate and old. Packer remembered how exciting journalism was when he was Brazil's age and the world filled him with wonder.

"I just got off the phone with Deputy Chief Virginia West," he said to his protege as he read.