She merely stated facts, with a minimum of innuendo and conclusions.
But deep inside Sara knew the truth about the Reverend Ernest Sanders.
There was just no avoiding it.
The man was pure scum.
The studio bustled with activity. Technicians read meters and adjusted lights. Cameramen swung their lenses into place. The teleprompter was being tested, no more than three words to a line so that the audience at home would not see the anchor's eyes shifting. Directors, producers, engineers, and gofers scrambled back and forth across a set that looked like a large family room with no ceiling and only one wall, as though some giant had ripped apart the outside so he could peer in.
A man Sara did not recognize rushed toward her.
"Here you go," he said. The man handed her several sheets of paper.
"What's this?" she ask eh
"Papers."
"No, I mean what are they for?"
He shrugged.
"To shuffle."
"Shuffle?"
"Yeah, you know, like when you break for a commercial and the camera pulls away. You shuffle them."
"I dor
"Makes you look important," he assured her before rushing off.
She shook her head. Alas, so much to learn.
Without conscious thought, Sara began to sing quietly. She usually restricted her singing to the shower or the car, preferably accompanied by a very loud radio, but occasionally, when she was nervous, she began to sing in public. Loudly.