spread out the photos on her desk. First she lined up the babies. Then she put the pictures of the parents next to the babies. Her hands flew as she moved, shifted as she struggled to come up with a headline that would tell the story in three words or less.
A sticky pad found its way to her hand. Readers would want names to go with the cherubs’ faces. The parents needed names, too. Mom and Dad? Beth and John? Rachel and Tom? Mom and Dad! Nurse, teacher, doctor, engineer? Robert, Rita, Benjy? What should she go with for her headline?
Maybe she was going about this all wrong. Maybe she should put Baron Bell’s picture above the fold and go with a headline that applied to him. Like those pictures the New York papers printed about the most hated man in America: Bernie Madoff. Her reporter’s instinct told her people would care, but they’d move on. No, she had to go with the babies and the parents. The headline would come to her. She was sure of it.
Eating always helped her think more clearly. How weird that she’d worked through her lunch hour. Maybe she needed to remove herself from what she was seeing for a little while. She could go to the cafeteria and get a corned beef on rye and whatever else they had that would complement the corned beef.
On her way down in the elevator, Maggie’s fist shot in the air. Out of nowhere her headline hit her between the eyes. “You’re toast, Baron Bell!”
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