The marker smell thickens the room until my tongue goes numb at the edges. I crack the studio window and let the lake send in its usual cocktail: diesel, cold rope, old coffee from the church hall two blocks over. The breeze rattles my printout of chain-of-custody forms and nudges the copper blank where it sits on my desk like a small sun. The whiteboard leans against the bookshelf, ghosted with old outlines. I uncork a fresh chisel-tip and start writing rules I can live with when the next donor, the next story, the next clever threat arrives.
Survivor Steering Committee goes first, big letters. Under it I draw three boxes: Membership voted by survivors, Rotating chair, Recorded votes. I write Veto Power and underline it twice. If a piece harms, they can stop me cold. My hand sags for a second at the thought of clicks I will never see, then steadies.
“Talk to me,” I say out loud, to the board, to the room, to the lake pressing a low hum through the glass.
Edit Changelog (Public) goes next. I list: Cut list, Why each cut, What I left raw. A seiche bumps the breakwater and the gull calls go tinny for half a breath, then widen—sound walking around the corner like a person who can take a hint. I write Consent Windows: Pre-interview check, Post-interview cool-down, Re-ask before air. I add a star: Offer counselor stipend. I can feel Lydia’s letter in my pocket even when it isn’t; I keep hearing tell the whole thing and I make room for those who need quiet to make that possible.
I switch markers. The red squeaks on enamel: Profit-Sharing. I list: Patreon split for named contributors, Survivor fund percentage off top, Emergency grants for testimony travel. I don’t want gratitude money; I want a system that leaves no one paying gas with courage alone. I draw a brass bell next to the words, not cute, just a reminder that metal carries what flesh shouldn’t.
Public Ledger: Quarterly reports, Vendor list, Sponsor contract terms, No pre-approval clauses. The swap-group chorus will try to call this grandstanding. I’ll call it an instruction manual for anyone who wants to hold me accountable.
I write No Surprise Visits and No Hidden Mics with the kind of pressure that smears a little felt on the board. My vent still houses the ghost of a bug we found and taped to an evidence card. I add Open Raw Tape by Request (with safety review), then Corrections Procedure and Community Notes (moderated). Every arrow I draw points away from me. That is the point.
Ruth knocks once and then lets herself in with a paper bag hooked over her wrist. “Fuel,” she says. “Half the town brought muffins to the Annex because they don’t know what to do with their hands now that there’s policy.”
“We will redirect their hands to bylaws,” I say, and I realize my voice is lighter. I gesture at the whiteboard. “New season, new spine.”
She reads, head tipped, mouth pressed into a line that I’ve learned means approval disguised as skepticism. “Steering committee gets stipend?” she asks.
I cap the red and click open the blue. “Yes.” I write Committee Stipends. “No donut pay.”
Ruth barks a laugh. “No donut pay?” She waves the bag. “Then I’ll eat two out of principle.”
“Fine,” I say, smiling. “But I’m budgeting cash, not pastries.”
She hands me a napkin and points at the bottom of the board. “Where do you put me?”
I uncap the black like a signature. Recurring Cohost: Ruth Calder. I write it slow, enjoying the weight of the letters. Under it: On-mic disclosures, Cops & Courts translator, Chain-of-custody hawk. I picture us splitting reads, trading silences, letting interviews breathe without my old habit of scoring grief.
“You don’t have to—” she starts.
“I want to,” I cut in, because I know where that sentence goes. “I need to. And you get a contract.” I pull a folder from the stack: her name, the rate, the clause that lets her walk the second my ethics wobble. My hand shakes only once when I offer the pen.
She pretends to weigh it but her eyes already say yes. “No donut pay,” she repeats, scribbling her name. “You’re growing on me.”
Micro-hook: I pin the signed page to the corkboard and feel a click inside that doesn’t belong to any lock in the tower.
I take a picture of the whiteboard for the newsletter, then put the phone facedown. I don’t want to chase hearts. I want to write the part that would make me proud to read back when a lawyer waves discovery at me. I open the laptop and paste in headers, bullets, and sample language that won’t buckle under daylight.
“Donors next?” Ruth asks, mouth full of what turns out to be a cider donut disguised as a policy tool.
“Donors next.” I wipe sugar from her sleeve like a sister and put the phone on speaker. I dial the small foundation that once bought ad time with euphemism—community resilience—and I brace to explain what resilience costs when it’s real.
The program officer answers with a soft “Hi, Mara,” and a background hiss that could be a kettle or a space heater. I count the lacings on my mic stand while I speak.
“I’m sending over our manifesto,” I tell her. “Survivor committee with veto power. Public edit logs. Profit-sharing at ten percent of net from episodes their stories shape. No pre-approval for content, no sponsored questions. Quarterly public ledger. You keep your logo off the microphone unless the committee approves the fit.”
She breathes. “You’re asking to make the thing clean,” she says. “Which means I have to tell my board that we don’t get a seat.”
“You get a report and a place in the acknowledgments,” I say. “You also get to withdraw if we break the rules.”
“You won’t,” Ruth mutters. I kick her lightly and she winks.
“We’re in,” the officer says, surprising me with the speed. “Send the terms. I’ll bring the ones who need convincing to a listening session with the committee.”
“No cameras,” I say. “And no ‘grip and grin’ with survivors.”
“Noted.” The kettle hisses louder. “Please write the part about the emergency fund,” she adds. “We’ve got capacity to seed it.”
“I’m writing it now,” I say, and I draw Emergency Fund—Restricted in block letters, then underline it until the marker squeals.
We hang up. I let the silence sit like a blessing. Ruth pops another bite. “One yes,” she says. “You calling the ad network or am I bringing a taser to the conversation.”
“I’ll try charm before voltage.” I dial the ad rep who sent confetti emojis the day my downloads spiked and a shrug the day sponsors paused.
“Mara!” he says, all varnish. “Loved the last episode. Truly brave.”
“Bravery is later. Today is paperwork,” I say. I give him the same list. I add the one nonnegotiable that makes him cough: No host-reads unless the committee says the product won’t exploit listeners.
“You’re tying your hands,” he warns.
I look at my hands. Marker ink rims my nails; a faint tar line from the old rope stains my thumb. “I’m binding the wound,” I say. “We can’t sell grief like weatherproofing.”
He laughs too quickly, then hears I’m not laughing. “We can place you with aligned brands,” he offers. “And we’ll accept your veto process—but we’ll need visibility into your ledger.”
“Public ledger,” I say. “You get what everyone gets. No back door.”
“Fine,” he says, deflated but still on the call. “Send the language. We’ll adapt.”
I hang up and circle Aligned brands only on the board. The circle becomes a bell. I draw the clapper and don’t fill it in. The copper blank warms under my index finger when I lean on the desk.
“Next,” Ruth says.
“Local donors,” I say, and we both grimace because local can mean family more than money. I call the bakery whose owner once baked my show’s logo in sugar and the hardware store that replaced my window for free after the clapper incident. I walk them through the same terms. The bakery says yes with a request: “Let us cater committee meetings, no charge, but only what they ask for.” The hardware store says yes with one condition: “Put our name on the ledger, not on grief.”
“That’s two yeses and a mutter,” Ruth says when I finish explaining to a marina shop why I won’t cut them a special rate for an episode on ‘lake life.’ “Better odds than depositions.”
I copy the names into a spreadsheet and add a line for Trustees Testimony Series—episodes that will outlast this town’s news cycle. I put Open-Access Glossary underneath: rope fibers, roomprint, seiche. If I’m going to keep teaching how to hear, I should document the words I pulled from air.
“We should talk logistics,” I say, and we do: a survivor liaison line, a schedule for steering meetings, an allowance for child care and transit. I list a Trigger Review that isn’t a bludgeon but a handrail; I list Opt-Outs that won’t punish anyone who needs to go quiet later. I add Mediation for when stories grind against each other. I tack on Archive Access for other journalists with clean hands and a willingness to sign the pledge I draft on the fly: “Do no staging. Refuse anonymous power. Share receipts.”
Ruth takes a picture of me while I’m writing. I glare without heat. “For my fridge,” she says. “This is better than any award.”
“No trophies,” I say, and I mean it like a prayer. “Only ledgers and lunch.”
Micro-hook: I drag a blue arrow from Profit-Sharing to Emergency Fund and imagine my downloads paying for someone’s tires and a night in a quiet motel. The thought electrifies my ribs.
“We forgot one thing,” Ruth says, tapping the empty corner of the board.
“What?”
“What happens when you screw up,” she says, eyes too kind for the words to wound.
I write When I Fail. Under it: Public note within 24 hours, Committee review, Repair plan with dates, Donor opt-out window. I add a line I wish I’d written two years ago: Say sorry without an explanation that sounds like a defense.
The phone buzzes with a text from a name I used to flinch at: one of the silent merchants who took down a Crane plaque. We’ll fund chairs for your committee room if they get to choose the chairs, it reads.
“Deal,” I text back. “Comfort is policy.”
Ruth taps the copper blank with her knuckle. “You going to ring that?” she asks.
“I’m going to etch it when the committee approves the manifesto,” I say. “No private devotions, no secret tokens. If I wear it, it means they signed off.”
“You’re a stubborn one,” she says, but she’s smiling.
The lake coughs another small seiche and my window clicks in its frame. Sound bends; the forklift at the marina sounds closer, then recedes. I hear St. Brigid’s bell wheel complain once, like a knee trying to stand without the old rope. I close my eyes and let the room correct itself.
“One more call,” I tell Ruth. “The university journalism clinic. They offered interns. I’m going to trade them for auditors.”
She raises her brows. “Students that grade you?”
“Students who log me,” I say. “They’ll sit in on edits and publish an annual ethics report.”
“No donut pay for them either,” she says.
“Coffee and a stipend,” I answer. “Plus the joy of telling me when I’m wrong.”
We laugh, then grow quiet. The whiteboard looks like a map of a town I actually want to live in. The copper blank throws a small flare across my keyboard. My chest does that tight-hot thing it does when I’m about to start recording, but I don’t reach for the mic. I reach for a rag and wipe a smear from Corrections Procedure like polishing a bell.
Ruth tips her chair back so the front legs hover. “You’re going to make people mad,” she says. “Donors who liked quiet, listeners who liked blood without paperwork.”
“I know,” I say. “But I’m not making a show to soothe them. I’m building a practice to outlast them.”
“Good,” she says, settling all four legs with a thud. “Because the trustees won’t stop at Everett. Policies give us ballast.”
I cap the last marker. The board glows like a signal flag. I take another photo, this time for the committee draft packet. I open a blank document and type a title in big letters: Second Lives: Working Rules. I paste the bullets and add a note at the top: These rules are a promise; break them and the show stops.
“Ready to send?” Ruth asks.
I hover over the email field, then stop. “One more sentence,” I say, and I write: Any survivor can call a pause at any time; the pause is honored without debate.
I send. The whoosh sounds too cheerful for what it carries, but I’ll take the physics of it.
I look at Ruth. “Cohost,” I say, testing the word in my mouth like a coin. “You in for the intro tomorrow?”
“I am,” she says. “And I’m going to pronounce seiche wrong on purpose so you have to correct me.”
“No donut pay for puns,” I warn.
She laughs and stands, stretching her back. “Then I’ll accept my stipend with dignity and buy my own pastries.”
We step onto the porch with our mugs and watch the afternoon lean toward steel. The lake slaps the pilings with a rhythm that feels like first drafts and stubborn edits. Somewhere down Pine, a bell ringer tests the new rope with one careful tug. The note drifts, honest and unadorned. I don’t record it. I let it land.
“Tomorrow,” Ruth says.
“Tomorrow,” I echo, and I touch the copper blank. I picture the etching jig waiting in a box, the committee names I’ll read on air, the ledger I’ll post before lunch, the first guest who will test these rules and the last who will trust them. The wind pulls sound sideways for a blink and I hear my own voice from somewhere across the water, reading the new intro without music. It sounds like a life I haven’t lived yet.
I turn back to the whiteboard and catch a small error—Public Ledgar—and fix it. “No donut pay,” I say again, grinning now, because I can feel the old show loosening its grip on me like a knot dying.
I lock the studio and ask the question that will carry me into the last chapter, into metal and heat and breath: when I etch the blank and ring the new practice into being, will the town live with the rules I’ve written—or will the first hard story tempt me to sand them down for a prettier sound?