Not the tuition—he'd known that number for years—but the interest. The kind
that didn't announce itself loudly, only accumulated quietly in the background,
growing heavier each time he logged into the loan portal. It was there, neat
and digital, detached from the reality of skipped meals and exhausted phone
calls.
He closed the page before the numbers could
settle in his chest.
The campus library was nearly empty, its lights
dimmed to save electricity, its silence broken only by the hum of ventilation
and the occasional cough from a student refusing to go home. The boy had been
that student for weeks now. Going back to his dorm room meant lying awake,
calculating how many hours of part-time work translated into fractions of
tuition.
A tired college freshman read the email three times before it finally felt
real.
Not enough. Never enough.
That was why the email mattered.
He opened it again, just to be sure it hadn't
changed.
Congratulations.
After reviewing your application, we would like to offer you a junior
contributor position with The Evening Ledger.
It wasn't a scholarship.
It wasn't a miracle.
But it was money—and right now, money mattered more than pride.
He exhaled slowly, letting his back sink into the plastic chair of the
campus library. Around him, students whispered about exams and deadlines, their
worries small enough to fit neatly inside planners. His worries lived
elsewhere—on billing statements, loan portals, and the tired lines on his
parents' faces during video calls
College wasn't just expensive.
It was suffocating.
He leaned back in his chair, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he'd
been holding. Around him, the library felt suddenly less oppressive. The rows
of books no longer looked like monuments to futures he couldn't afford.
He typed a quick reply accepting the offer
before doubt could catch up.
Only then did the weight return—because relief
never came alone.
His parents were the next thought. They always
were.
His mother's voice, carefully cheerful during
calls, as if optimism itself could stretch a budget. His father's habit of
changing the subject whenever money came up, redirecting conversations toward
campus life, grades, weather—anything safer
His tuition alone had eaten through what little savings his parents had. His
mother insisted they were "managing," which Theodore knew meant skipped meals
and overtime shifts. His father joked about selling the car. Neither of them
said the word debt, but it hovered in every conversation like a bad
smell no one wanted to acknowledge.
So when The Evening Ledger replied to his application, he hadn't
hesitated.
The job wasn't glamorous. He knew that the moment he stepped into the
newsroom—cramped desks, flickering lights, the smell of stale coffee and old
paper. He wasn't a reporter. Not really.
He packed his things and left the library, the night air cold enough to
sting his lungs. The campus looked different after midnight—paths emptier,
buildings taller, windows dark like unblinking eyes. He wondered, briefly, how
many other students were walking around with numbers circling their heads like
vultures.
Probably more than anyone admitted.
The newsroom was smaller than he expected.
The Evening Ledger occupied a narrow building
wedged between a closed bakery and a law office that had outlived three
recessions. Inside, desks were packed tightly together, papers stacked in
uneven piles, cables snaking across the floor like afterthoughts. The smell of
old coffee clung to everything.
This, Theodore thought, was where important things were supposed to happen.
The editor barely glanced up when the boy
introduced himself.
"You're the kid with the camera background?"
the man asked, already reaching for another folder.
"Yes, sir." He, nodded fervently.
"Good. You'll run. Scoops, tips, leftovers.
Things we don't have time for."
He slid a laminated press badge across the
desk. Theodore's name was printed slightly crooked, the plastic scratched.
Then came the camera.
It was heavier than he expected, its surface
worn smooth in places where hands had held it for years. The strap was frayed.
The lens had a faint scratch that caught the light just right.
"It still works," the editor said, finally
looking at him. "Treat it better than we did." The editor remarked turning his chair
in an instant to another desk.
That was it.
No orientation. No speech about journalistic
integrity. Just a job handed over like an obligation passed down.
"Chase tips. Accidents. Minor incidents. Anything weird, anything ignored.
Don't embellish. Just bring proof."
He nodded like he belonged there.
"Oh yeah what's your name again, kid?" the editor exclaimed uninterested still
working on with the piles of papers.
The boy turned with a small gesture, "Theodore Gadwin, At your service"
Still, when he stepped back onto the street with the badge in his pocket and
the camera hanging at his side, something in his chest loosened.
He was what they called a runner.
Someone young enough to move fast, desperate enough to say yes, and
replaceable enough to take risks no one else wanted attached to their byline.
Still, they paid him.
An allowance, technically. Enough to cover meals. Enough to chip away at
interest. Enough to stop his parents from pretending everything was fine.
That alone made it worth it.
Truth was, he was terrified. But terror was familiar. Debt had taught him
how to function under it.
That night, he messaged his parents before he could overthink it.
I got a job.
It's with a newspaper. It pays an allowance.
His mother replied first.
That's wonderful! We knew things would work out.
His father's reply came later.
Proud of you.
Theodore stared at that single line until the
screen dimmed.
His first assignment came two days later. Nothing dramatic.
A minor fire in an old residential block scheduled for redevelopment. No casualties. The official statement had already gone out, which meant the story itself was dead. The
Ledger just needed photos—something to fill space, something archival.
Theodore arrived late afternoon, the smell of
smoke still lingering in the air. The building stood cordoned off, blackened
windows staring outward, firefighters packing up equipment with practiced
boredom.
He raised the camera.
Through the lens, the scene looked sharper
somehow. More defined. The lines of the building clearer, the shadows deeper.
He adjusted focus, snapped a few shots, moved closer.
A strange thought crossed his mind then—not fear, not even curiosity, just a
vague sense of displacement. As if the building didn't quite agree with the
street it stood on.
He dismissed it immediately.
Fatigue, he told himself. Adrenaline.
First-day nerves.
He finished quickly and left before dusk.