She likes to board the pneumatic every morning. The Airfloat is a decent way to ride to FEDRA. She’s glad she doesn’t have to drive and worry about huddle-bombs. Women don’t need to have cars, she thinks, we don’t need to look for disasters.
Lora truly appreciates sweetly smiling Newsi women as they twinkle at the news men by their side. Anchors are so reassuring. Better than Presidents. Anchors bind us together, she thinks. Newsi women have soothing voices. She’d hate to listen to a raspy voice. Her Hugger’s voice, high pitched and grating, made her uneasy. Sade, her favorite Newsi, has a voice full of sympathy. When Sade recites the details of troop murders, car crashes, and huddle bombs, her forehead wrinkles with empathy.
Nestling into the bed, munching on salted nuts, Lora wishes she were a Newsi. But she knows you have to be born into it. Newsies get their jobs because they grow up with fathers who are reporters. The process is fair. You’d need to grow up with an Anchor in order to stomach all that blood and gore. Newsie women have to be brave, but, like her, they are reasonable and fair-minded. Sade, her touchstone, knows everything. Sade, her guardian angel, brings the world into her life. Watching Sade’s compassion, Lora wishes she could look like her; such a doll. She knows she envies Sade’s earrings, her pearls, and her skirts. Most of all she wishes she could wear make-up and go out to play with Anchors.
But she has to admit she can’t hold back her emotions. She could never perform night after news-filled night, especially when it comes to telling stories about little dead girls. Newsies are never ruffled. Lora adjusts the sound, leans back, and looks her all-wise Sade in the eye. Snuggled in shifting plasma light, Lora, lulled by her love of Sade, hands herself over to sleep.