Arthur wasn’t the youngest or most charismatic editor on the floor. He wore scuffed loafers and drank burnt coffee from a thermos older than most of his reporters. But when a story landed on his desk, something in him changed. His eyes, usually a tired hazel, would narrow to the color of a winter storm. His voice dropped to a gravelly rasp. And he would begin to edit .
Jenny protested. “But I have to establish context—” wolf editor
And in the newsroom of the Denver Inquisitor , that was the only kind of wolf worth being. Arthur wasn’t the youngest or most charismatic editor