“When I took over the paper, I told myself I’d never become one of them.

You know the ones—those old, stiff-collared men with cigars and secrets. Who shake hands in back rooms and write headlines from the boardroom table. I said I’d be different. I said the press would serve the people. Give voice to the voiceless. Hold power accountable.

But here I am. Signing off and going along, and it might as well have been written by the Mayor himself.

And what’s worse—I’m doing it with a smile.

I want to believe the Doctor. Truly. I still think he’s right—on some level. But in this town, being right doesn’t matter. Being useful does. And right now, his kind of truth isn’t useful. It’s dangerous. You want to know what I’ve learned? Truth doesn’t sell papers. Certainty does. Fear does. Familiarity. A puff piece about the Springs’ anniversary brings in ad money. A scandal about contamination? That just scares the guests. And no one wants to buy a paper that ruins their weekend plans.

The board has been reminding me of that. Repeatedly. And when Peter showed me the budget—what it would cost to shut down, repair, rebuild—what it would do to taxes, to property values, to tourism... I could feel the ground moving beneath me. I’m not just an editor. I’m a small businessman. I pay rent. I buy ink. I employ typesetters. You know what a municipal tax hike does to a paper like mine? It folds it. In six months.

And suddenly the stakes aren’t about truth anymore. They are about survival. My staff. My family. My future. And so I do what any “reasonable man” does when the wolves come knocking: I make the smart choice. I print what won’t collapse the town.

And yes… I try to bury the report.

I tell myself it is just until we know more. Until the facts are clearer. Until we can vet the data. But truthfully?

It’s because it will light a fuse. And I’m not ready for the explosion.

The people need to feel safe. And I can give it to them. That’s what we do in the media. We tell the truth people can afford to hear. But sometimes I wonder—what if I printed it anyway? What if I burned the paper to the ground and hand out those five pages like kindling? Would the town fall apart? Or will it finally open its eyes?

And maybe someday, someone will write a better version of this story. But it won’t be printed in my paper. Not anymore.”