The assignment seemed simple enough. A space elevator. That's what the editor told me on the phone: "David, go to the Vandenberg facility. Take some pictures. Write five hundred words. Don't make a story out of it."
But nothing at Vandenberg is just a space elevator. I'm David Callahan. Thirty-five years old. I work for the New York Times, which means I am perpetually exhausted, perpetually cynical, and perpetually hoping that one story—the next story—will win me a Pulitzer that will justify all the nights I spent sleeping on a friend's couch and eating ramen. The elevator is real. It goes from California...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 10 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen