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with the new boss.”
    Just then, Bryce stuck his head out of his office and motioned me over. A large laminated map of Minnesota with a big circle around the Twin Cities hung on his previously empty wall.
    He didn’t ask me how my story went; he delivered a lecture. “This is our DMA—designated market area.” His finger traced a round line that extended about seventy miles north and south of Minneapolis, just missing Rochester and clipping western Wisconsin.
    “Here’s where your story is located.” He drew a red star near the Minnesota–Iowa state line, far outside the magic circle. “Our news coverage resources need to be concentrated in this area.” He pointed inside the circle at the Twin Cities. “That’s where the majority of our viewers live.”
    His other hand swept across much of southern and northern Minnesota. “This territory gets no over-the-air signal. Only cable.”
    I nodded to show I was paying attention to his lesson, even though I was already familiar with the information. But the DMA had never had any impact on Channel 3’s news coverage. If a good story broke in Minnesota, we chased. DMA had always been more of an advertising sales tool. That’s why even though most Channel 3 viewers were urban, we also ran commercials for seed corn and fertilizer.
    I’d often thought of Minneapolis as a big town full of small-town people. I was one of them. And that made me unusual in the competitive world of television. Most journalists don’t get to work in their home market. News is an industry of transplants.
    “Bryce, I don’t think Twin Cities residents are so self-centered as to not care about happenings outside the viewing area. I’ve lived here my whole life and our audience is hungry for the latest news across the state.”
    “That’s your opinion,” he said. “But as news director, I make the calls on what gets covered. And if I had known the trapped-boy story you pitched was so far out of the DMA, I would never have approved it.”
    Bryce moved away from the map and sat down on the edge of his desk, motioning for me to take a chair. I settled uncomfortably across from him. No personal photos graced his desk. Like most newsies, including me, he probably didn’t have much of a personal life. If he did, he might not want his underlings to know about it. Or maybe he simply hadn’t had time to unpack items that defined him.
    I’d already noted he wasn’t wearing a ring on his left hand. That meant he probably didn’t have anyone to rush home to and would routinely scrutinize the newsroom to see who else stayed late, working extra hours. And he’d see me.
    “I just want to be clear about something,” he said. “I may be unfamiliar with this market, but when it comes to running a newsroom, I’m the man to save this sinking station.”
    “We’re lucky to have you.” I had no idea if that was true ornot, but I had to say something. If our current dialogue was a job review, I’d probably only score “meets expectations.” But that’s not enough to fire someone.
    “I’ll try to do better down the road,” I assured him.
    “That’s the kind of attitude I like to see on my team.”
    He raised his hand for another high five. I followed his lead, but instead of simply slapping our palms together, he grasped my hand and caressed my fingertips.
    My impulse was to pull away and I did. A flash of displeasure crossed his face. Quickly, I pretended to be looking at my watch, checking the time.
    “I really should check the story edit,” I said. “And now that I understand your priorities concerning coverage, I’ll be very clear about story geography.”
    He smiled at my surrender to his terms. “Because I sense we can work well together, I’ll make your homicide the lead story tonight after all.”
    I thanked him for his confidence in me and returned to my office, trying to figure out what had just happened between us.

CHAPTER 14
    W hen the shotgun slug tore into the sinkhole