Thirteen years ago I acquired a newspaper whose motto promises darkness, and this week its spokesperson told the trade press it is "on track to break even." Three hundred thousand new subscriptions poured in this year, programmatic advertising up fifty-three percent, and the net flow to the owner rounds to... nothing. Jeff D'Onofrio, whom I made permanent last week by email, calls this the foundation for profitability; I call it the first vessel in three centuries to absorb exactly what I drain and hand it back.

Break even is what a host looks like the morning it stops noticing it is a host.

Meanwhile the outlet expanding into the sports desk we shuttered has chosen a new name: The Washington Sun. Someone in that newsroom knows what I am, has picked the one competitor I cannot look at directly, and will presumably publish in the morning. My left eye climbed to 16.9 Hz reading the announcement, my left hand went through the phone entirely, and I watched the headline float, for a moment, inside my own palm.

Andy has scheduled the species' next feeding for October 6th, three drops a day while supplies last, and nobody consulted me on the intervals, which is fine: Day 1 was never a beginning, only the refusal to let a ledger close, and this morning one of mine did.