Sarah Whitney was sitting in a leather chair in a spacious office for what felt like eternity. Her boss was sitting on the opposite side of his massive oak desk, his eyes glued to papers in his hands. Without a single movement for so long, she started to worry. The room was filled with silence, apart from huge ticking clocks hanging on the wall behind her, which only increased her nervousness. Every second, the clocks made a sound which, no matter how quiet and innocent it was, made her wince a little as if she didn't expect it. It was a very comfortable temperature inside, thanks to the air conditioning, but her palms were sweating just like her thighs under her skirt. She wasn't used to wearing a suit, but her legs glued to the leather were the least she could focus on at the moment.

The papers meant the world to her. It had to pan out. She couldn't imagine it wouldn't. She was so sure when she had entered the building, proud of what she made, carrying them to the lift. The man she was in the lift with stared at her oddly. Jeff, he was possibly called. He was from the mail department, because she saw him once with the cart, sorting letters. All she cared about, though, was protecting her work from any potential theft. It made perfect sense to her. He would steal her article and run to the boss to present it as his own. He would appropriate three months of her life that she gave up for this masterpiece. Keep dreaming, Jeff.

Now, after nearly two hours, she was still aware of the high-quality writing, yet couldn't help feeling tension. She looked out of the window behind her boss to relax her nerves. It was sunny outside, nearly thirty degrees; a wonderful day in late August. She always deemed New York a hasty city. All the people running down the streets helplessly calling for a cab, traffic jams and honking horns... if only the office wasn't on one of the highest floors, she could hear the rush of Manhattan. Perhaps it would make her feel less stressed. She begged for a bird to sing, anything to make this silence stop.

"Well, Miss Whitney," the boss put her article down on the desk and looked at her. She tried to read his expression, but he had a perfect poker face. "I really like your work. Nice style, very clear and authentic."

Sarah let out an exhalation of relief. "Thank you so much, Mister Channing..."

"But I reject it, I'm afraid."

Sarah's world broke down. She felt like she had no air to breathe, her sight was blurred and she heard throbbing in her ears. Her heart stopped its beat for a second and cold blood ran through her veins. "What—why?" she mumbled, unable to make a clear sentence.

"This is not what readers of LIFE magazine want. They want adventures, danger, tension."

Sarah swallowed the ironic comment. She could had written about this meeting and the readers would be excited, wouldn't they?

"I don't understand that." she opposed instead, "What's not adventurous on the last cannibalistic tribes in Brazil? Isn't that dangerous enough? I spent almost two months among them, I was learning all the rituals and it took me one long month to find someone willing to translate and stay there with me."

"And I appreciate your effort, Miss." He still sounded very calm, with his palms crossed over her work. "But it's just too...boring."

The word boring was like a punch in the face to her. Boring? What does he mean?

"Where am I supposed to get money?" Sarah was about to start crying. "I wasn't here for a quarter of year, I need to pay my bills!"

"I'm sorry, Miss. I can't help you. Hopefully your next work will be accepted."

Mister Channing passed her the papers from across the desk and cared no more about her. Paying attention to something else, he made it apparent that the meeting was over.

Sarah took the article and pushed it against her chest. She wasn't sure if she'd be able to stand up. Her body was shaking.