“Rav Silver, don’t ask me silly questions. Open the paper from last year and the year before, and copy something from there"
The Isru Chag edition of the paper is always sparse.
Gedalya sits in his office, worn to a frazzle, approving news reports as they trickle in. A boat carrying fifty-eight passengers sank off the coast of Sudan. Now he knows Sudan has a coast. You live and learn.
“Maybe you could go over the material for this weekend’s Hed Kevodah in the meantime,” Shimshon suggests, “as long as you’re sitting here anyway.”
The night editor has an even more fantastic idea. “Write up a Motzaei Chag item for us,” he says, bustling in, half peremptory and half pleading. “I know it’s not your job, but I’ve got no staff here. They all disappeared. Probably finding some chometz to eat.”
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