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over. The next morning when I arrived at the station, Haig called me straight into his office.
    â€œIt’s time to cut the sheets,” he said, looking down at some papers in his hands.
    â€œYou mean not working here any longer?” I said, as if clarification was necessary.
    â€œYes,” Haig said, finally glancing up. “We’re letting you go.”
    â€œNo need,” I shot back, “I quit.”
    I stood up and shook his hand, and thanked him for everything. He was a good man in a tough spot. “See you around,” I said and walked back to my desk.
    In less than a minute, a security guard tapped me on the shoulder and stated with authority, “Please give me your station identity card. WFAA has the legal rights to all of your files. I’m here to escort you to your car. A settlement on your contract will be negotiated with your agent.”
    I opened my wallet, handed over my identity card, and walked away, saying politely but firmly, “I can show myself out.”

    It was the first time I’d ever been fired from anything. I had occasionally wondered if something like this might happen one day,and the thought had always made me shudder with fear. Now, I was surprised at how great it felt.
    â€œDon’t worry,” Lindner comforted me when I called him from my high-rise apartment overlooking the Dallas skyline. “We’ll find a better spot for you. Just give me some time.”
    â€œOkay,” I answered. “I’m going back to California as soon as I can book a flight. I’ll be in touch from there.”
    It took a few days to arrange for the packing and shipping of my things, then I was off to a small island in San Diego Bay called Coronado, where I had relatives. I rented a condo overlooking the bay and began catching up with family and friends. The settlement on my contract paid my salary for another year. Surely, I thought, Lindner would come through in a flash. I could just relax, sun myself at the beach, and have a good time. But before two weeks was up, I was going stir-crazy. I had no idea what to do with myself without reporting. It was like having no identity. No reason for being. I was completely lost.
    The weeks turned into one month, then two, then three. After half a year, I thought I might explode. That’s when Lindner finally called. WBZ-TV in Boston, an NBC affiliate in an even bigger news market, liked the reel of my reports that William Morris sent them. I soon had a new contract and an even higher salary. I could breathe again; I was back in the game.
    I leased a grand old apartment in the historic Back Bay overlooking the Charles River and the verdigris dome of MIT. It was thrilling to be in this sophisticated city with its rich history, but I knew, even at this prestigious station, local news would never be enough. Going to Afghanistan was just a start. I had to pitch more global stories, stretch the limits, make a mark. I was thirty-six years old. By the end of my three-year contract at WBZ, I’d be close to forty. After that, I told myself, I had to be at the network or I’d be past my prime. Ambition was consuming me again.

CHAPTER 4
    Tropical Storm
    T HE OCTOBER SUN BREAKS the morning horizon and bathes us in golden light. It’s already freezing in Boston, but it’s sublime here in the Bahamas. Warm breezes carry the rich aroma of the salt air across the tiny island. Gentle ocean waves roll in a soft song, lapping onto the white sand. Pelicans, gulls, and kingfishers soar above us, then splash into the ocean for a meal.
    It’s the end of 1986, and it’s my first vacation in years. I’ve always been so obsessed with my career that I haven’t wanted to take a real holiday since the day I began. There was only the break between the Dallas and Boston jobs, and that was all stress. Now, after being on the road airing my reports from Afghanistan at our other stations, followed by weeks of