A beast that should be driven at breakneck speed and I’m cautiously driving at half the speed limit to a thousand envious stares of those passing.

An old man passes by with a grin and I’m glad he got to feel superior today.

After a quick pit stop at home for a fresh set of clothes, I walk into Bluekin’s kick-ass downtown offices in Chicago. I’m running on adrenaline.

The thing I most love about this place is . . . well, hell. Everything. Their covers are usually hand-drawn sketches, and somehow this allows for a very ample diversity to the content inside. If anyone colors outside the lines, it’s Bluekin.

Their pieces on human interests are always real, sober, and very heartwarming—but that’s not all they feature. They have everything from funny articles to the most somber articles, covering every topic under an umbrella that they keep making wider and wider.

I’m rather blessed to be interviewed by Mr. Charles Harkin today, a very well-respected member of the company who used to work at a big New York magazine.

“The CEO is an acquaintance of Saint’s. He was impressed by how thoroughly you seemed to grasp him, and especially how brave you were in your honesty. You should be very proud of that piece.”

Fuck me. Does everyone have to mention that or know Malcolm? I hear him say “Saint” and I can’t stop the reaction: visceral. Like an elephant—Rosie—just kicked me in the heart.

Sleep deprivation weighs on me, but I feel as relaxed as if I were buzzing with alcohol. What swims in my veins is better than alcohol. Intoxicating. It’s pure beautiful torture to remember last night. He told me I wouldn’t forget spending the night and he’s right. I feel . . . possessed.

I exhale. Forcing myself to get out of his penthouse and come back here, to the HR department and the interview I never thought I’d want until the sacrifices I made for a career I loved brought too many complexities to rein back under control.

“Sometimes the good pieces are the ones that take the most from us,” I finally tell the man on the other side of the desk, admitting to myself that, well, that piece took so much from me I’m still not fully recovered.

He’s a nice, unassuming man, but behind the glasses, his gaze is shrewd and admiring. “In a way, I can relate. The hardest things to do are sometimes the ones that prove most meaningful, but not necessarily the ones we remember most fondly.”

We share a smile and then he reviews the pages before him. “It says here you’re interested in covering serious topics.” He nods approvingly. “We’re definitely looking to bring someone like you on board, who’s not afraid of taking risks.”

I wait and try to settle down my nerves as he reviews the paper again.

“Sorry for going into territory which might seem personal but . . .” he adds, “we’d like our reporters to gain their reputations for their pieces, rather than who they’re involved with. And dating such a figure in this city, well, it’s got to be tough. Saint is a man known to overpower what he wants and we’re surprised you’d be interviewing here . . .” he admits.

I smile a little. “He respects my career choices, I assure you.”

“Hmmm . . .” he says.

I start getting the feeling they’re somehow concerned that hiring me will piss off Malcolm.

“So you’re not interested in even partly writing on your previous subjects?” He looks down. “Your column usually discusses the trends around the city, though lately you’ve seemed to be steering onto dating advice for women.”

“Yes. But I’d like these new pieces to involve me a bit more with the community—helping share the stories of people who don’t have a voice yet.”

He jots down notes. “You have vision and ambition.” He taps his pen to the paper where he’s writing stuff. “And your output is impressive in your amount of time at Edge.” He nods, then seems to drop the mask as he takes off the glasses.

“Look,” he folds his hands on the desk and looks me in the eye, “I’m going to level with you here. The bosses, they’re friends of Saint’s. You’re brave, which they love, edgy, but they’d need to be very sure you are here for the long term.”

“I am.”

“Are you really?” He leans back then, a challenge as he crosses his arms. “Malcolm Saint . . . he knows about this interview?”

“Yes.”

“But isn’t Interface starting a news department . . .” he trails off meaningfully, because of course the implications are where Saint could hire you?