“Come from the four winds, O breath, and breathe
upon these slain, that they may live… and the breath came into them and they lived… and they stood up upon their feet…”
—Ezekiel 37:9-10
One
Isabel picked at the ragged threads that once hugged a shiny button on the front of her blazer. Hunched over her keyboard and sallow-skinned from too much fluorescent lighting, she had won computer solitaire three times before she bored of it entirely and listlessly reached for the mouse to click over to the wires to see what was not happening on this slow Labor Day weekend.
Staring at her flickering screen, either at words floating in front of her or at playing cards triumphantly dancing off a full deck, was a relief from the noise in her brain: angry shouts shifting into one another like a Rubick’s Cube. “You disgust me,” her husband called out as her father’s voice interrupted with “You have no family” and “Why do you even bother?” Alex again: “You’re nothing, you don’t even register.”
She shook her head to put the invisible squares back into place.
“Hey, Jack, check out AP wires. Princess Diana’s been in a car accident,” she called out across the newsroom to the assignment editor, her ring finger finding its way to her front teeth.
“Yeah, her Mercedes probably got a scratch and they’re calling it a wreck,” the overnight editor answered.
Isabel was filling in for the weekend anchor who wanted the holiday weekend off to spend with his family in the Hamptons.
“You think you can actually get away from this?” an unidentified voice snarled in Isabel’s head.
She bit the skin around her fingernail.
“I don’t know, Jack. Look how many ‘urgents’ they’ve entered. Why don’t we call the London bureau and see what they know.”
“Okay, let’s,” Jack replied bitterly, knowing that “why don’t we call…” was a direct order for whoever was on the desk to carry out the task.
You disgust me. Did you hear me? You disgust me.
Isabel shook her head again. To an observer it might have appeared she was dodging persistent mosquitoes.
As Jack hit the direct-dial button to London, the phones started ringing. Isabel picked up the first line.
“Isabel, it’s John. I’m on my way in. Who’ve you talked to?”
“Huh?”
“London just beeped me. You talked to Ted yet? I think he’s making his way across town, too.”
Jesus.
“What did London tell you? Jack’s on the phone with them right now—I haven’t heard.” Isabel felt a knot tighten in her stomach.
“It’s bad. They said they’re going to coordinate with Jack to feed video as soon as the freelancer in Paris gets to the bureau. The car’s all mangled, though. Should be good pictures.”
“What about injuries?”
“London said they don’t know yet. Listen, kid, we may need you to do a special report. You okay with that?”
No. Jesus Christ, no.
“Sure,” she replied. She had tried to sound convincing but was sure she’d failed.
“You sure? Ted’s made the call that it’s you and he’s on his way in to make it happen. But say the word and we’ll get someone else in. You don’t have to do it.”
“I’m fine, John.” Isabel corrected her posture and took a deep breath in. “Seriously. Don’t give it another thought.”
I can’t do this. Not right now. Not tonight. Please.
But John was dubious. “Who else is in the newsroom?”
“No one. Just me and Jack and a couple of editors in the back—I don’t know who.”
“For chrissakes! Why hasn’t Jack gotten backup in there? You’re gonna need at least a couple of producers for now, until we can get our shit together and we know how bad this thing is. Lemme talk to Jack.”
“Stand by.” Isabel felt the thump of a headache gnawing its way to the front of her forehead. Her computer was beeping every two to three seconds with the same “urgent” wire report that Diana had