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I have traced the steps of a serial killer, contributed to the downfall of a CEO and flown in a tiny airplane, loaded with puppies. I once wrote about a rapist on the loose; they found him in a seedy motel, a block away from my house. My 11-year-old car is a graveyard for Google maps and drive-thru bags. My desk looks like a bomb hit it. I eat vending machine fruit snacks for dinner and get texts that ask, “When r u coming home?” I bite my nails. I’m actively terrified of the bad things that happen in my stories. I’m more afraid of making a mistake. Because people trust me with things they’ve never told anyone else. Don’t call me “the Media.”
I am a newspaper reporter.