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more than fifteen hundred newspapers. In effect, they did what I did: ship their stories off to others. Unlike me, they got credit for their work. Also unlike me, their reach extended to over one billion people. That was why I called Miranda. Once she put her piece on the wire, it would get picked up by newspaper, radio, and Web outlets all over the world. There was quite a lot of power packed into that small frame.
    Miranda was an old friend of mine. Actually, she was an old friend of an old flame, but we remained chummy. Since I was the one who got cheated on and dumped, Miranda didn’t have to play the allegiance card and freeze me out. To her, I was only an asshole by profession.
    Inviting her to Keoki Atoll had been a cruel pleasure on my part. It was always fun to crack her carefully maintained appearance. Miranda was a power dresser. Even in tropical weather, she looked ready for the catwalk in her sleeveless white Donna Karan blouse and three-hundred dollar Gucci slacks.
    Predictably, her jaw dropped at the spectacle of skin. “Oh my fucking God. I can’t believe you really did this.”
    “Miranda. Hey!” I went to hug her.
    “Don’t. Don’t even touch me. You are the scum of the earth. I’ve stepped in better things than you.”
    That was just how New Yorkers said hello. “How are you, hon?”
    “Jet-lagged. And thoroughly repulsed. What did you do, hire strippers?”
    “Nope. These are genuine New England student activists.”
    “Pathetic, Scott. Am I the only real journalist here?”
    “You and David Green from Maxim .”
    “I’ll take that as a yes. Here.”
    She handed me a DVD-ROM. The AP GraphicsBank was one of the world’s most extensive video image libraries. You try finding stock footage of a monk seal.
    “Oh, perfect,” I said. “I really needed this. Thank you.”
    “I don’t even know why I’m helping you. Jesus.”
    “Hey, where’s your photo guy?”
    “That would be me.” Proving her point, she extracted a two-thousand dollar digital camera from her leather bag, holding it as if it were somebody else’s baby. “There weren’t any photographers available from the Honolulu pool. And my goddamn bosses wouldn’t pay to fly Armand out here.”
    Typical. “All right. Hope you know how to use that thing.”
    “I hope I don’t.”
    It was finally time to get started. I gave Denny and Vivek a list of required shots, and they immediately sicced their cameras on the pool of nudes. No doubt there would be an unedited C-roll added to their personal collection. I made a note to get a copy for Ira.
    Meanwhile, Gray set up his editing station: a titanium G4 Power Book, complete with satellite uplink terminal. As I handed him the monk-seal disc, Miranda yanked my script out of my pocket. She paced the pavement, reading aloud.
    “‘You know the old expression: it’s not what you say but how you say it. This morning on the beautiful Hawaiian islands of Keoki Atoll, over two hundred young female activists staged a “cheeky” demonstration against the brand-new Fairmont Keoki, a ninety-million-dollar, twenty nine-acre luxury’—God, Scott!”
    “Keep reading.”
    “‘—luxury beach resort scheduled to open tomorrow. Their gripe? Fairmont’s treatment of Keoki’s oldest occupant, the endangered monk seal. Now in order to save the critters’ hides, these lovely young women...are baring theirs.’”
    She handed the script back. “You’re going to burn in hell.”
    “Only if they use my tit-for-tat pun.”
    “So how much did you spend on this whole sham?”
    “Who says I spent anything?”
    “Right. I’m sure these kids just cashed in their beer bottles. Do they know you’re using them?”
    “Who says I’m using them? God, Miranda. Relax. You’re in Hawaii.”
    Over the years, I’ve taught myself to observe people’s subtle nuances, to read between their lines. Now I can’t turn those powers off. I suffer from Terminator Vision, a red-screen overlay with constant