The kids at their desks stop caring about the press

There are, to my knowledge, no timelines that can pinpoint the moment that the kids at the desks stopped caring about the press. Presses aren’t known for getting much sleep, so it wasn’t worth their worry, but for the old hounds it came as a shock. Since when, they’d ask, did the truth have hours of employment?

But there was one kid who got it. They said he would probably be editor; old Fran Cooke would eventually have to hand over to someone with quicker hands and instincts, and it would be this kid.

The junior designers left for their pop-combos and websites. The reviews editor went home to fuck the brains out of whichever blond belle was there. The cleaner made a quicker exit than usual, risking it.

But the kid stayed until morning, still working, and still worked even then. His dinner spoiled and his girlfriend was not. He worried. His eyes tore themselves open again and again, like the page-turned crack of the morning broadsheets, until, head down on the keyboard for just an hour or so, he slept. The press remained awake, in resolve.