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YURI:Hah. Good try tovarisch. How are u?
TOM:Fine. Working on a story, ready to head out.
YURI:Head out why?
Tom pauses, wondering why he let that bit of information slip. He resumes his typing.
TOM:The story I’ve been working on…the possible attack on NYC. It’s getting too real. I’m taking my daughter and getting out of town for a bit.
There’s now a pause on the other end, the icon blinking.
YURI:Losing your nerve?
Ouch, that stung.
TOM:Doing my job as a dad. Taking my daughter to safety.
Another pause.
Longer.
YURI:Is this the same Tom Cornwall who shared rations with me in Syria? Who stood up for me against the Kurds? Who refused an evac because the story wasn’t done yet?
TOM:Same Tom. Different responsibilities.
YURI:You head out, you’ll miss the story.
Screw you, Tom thinks.
TOM:I stay, my daughter might miss her father. Forever.
Yuri quickly replies.
YURI:Sorry to see you lose your nerve. Reporters like us stayed in Leningrad, landed in Normandy, ran to the Towers, rode into Baghdad.
Tom is slowly getting more and more irritated. He quickly dips into a file folder marked KURD PIX, finds the photo he’s looking for, and sends it along to Yuri.
TOM:Reporters like this? Believe me, I’ve not changed. Not at all.
A silence. To reacquaint himself with what he just sent Yuri, Tom opens up the photo. It shows a squad of Kurdish peshmerga fighters resting against a dirt berm, smiling for the camera. At the right side of the squad is Tom, also smiling, and Yuri, seemingly distracted, digging into a green knapsack.
The pause grows longer.
YURI:Didn’t know you had this photo. Who took it?
TOM:Correspondent from CNN, a souvenir. That’s who I am. Even if I’m here in New York. But this time the story’s on my front doorstep, with my daughter right next to me. That’s the big difference, friend.
Then comes the abrupt and final message:
YURI Has Signed Out.
Tom stares at the blank screen, then looks around his office, with its books, newspapers, and notebooks. Plaques and awards clutter the far wall.
Damn that Yuri.
He sure knows how to needle a guy.
He picks up the phone and makes a call. When a gruff voice answers, he says, “Uncle John? It’s Tom. Hey, I was wondering…something’s come up at work. Would you mind keeping Denise for a few days?”
