Merrill Landon. _Merrill Landon. My father. My father is coming to New York. He never misses these damn things, he goes every year. Oh, God, help me._ Laura rode down to work on the subway, her fists clenched in her lap, her face set like a mask to cover the torment inside. _He doesn’t know I’m here, that’s one good thing. He’ll never find me, either. How long will he be here? It must be in the papers. I missed it at breakfast._ She picked up the _Times_ on the corner where she left the subway. She took it up to the office with her, impatient to look at it. Sarah was already there. “Hi, gorgeous,” she said. Laura looked up, startled. “Hi,” she said. “Who’s gorgeous?” “You are. You must be, you’ve got a man.” Laura stared at her blankly, her mind full of the threat of her father’s presence in the city. Finally it came to her. “Oh, you mean Jack,” she said. “Did you talk to him?” “Oh, yes. Yes.” _Now what the hell does she mean? Why would I—Oh! I promised her a date._ Laura felt suddenly sunk. All those reports to do that should have been done before. Lies to tell, at nine in the morning. Merrill Landon somewhere in New York. It was too much. The day stretched away in front of her like an endless obstacle course. “What’d he say?” Sarah said eagerly. “He’s working on it. Maybe this weekend.” “Gee, that sounds great.” Laura had to look at the paper; she _had_ to. It gnawed at her, as she sat at her desk, sneaking through it between reports and unable to find anything. Her father’s name ran through her mind like a robot tune from a TV commercial. It was a rushed day. Sarah didn’t take a break on days when they were behind, but nothing could have stopped Laura. She got up and almost ran to the washroom at eleven, the paper in hand. She felt herself trembling, going over the pages again and again, until she suddenly found it at the bottom of page 12. “Chi Delta Sigma, national journalism fraternity, opens its convention today at the McAlton Hotel. The convention will last until next Saturday, at which time ...” etc. There was an agenda listed, a few names—the national officers. There it was—Merrill Landon, corresponding secretary. Laura shut her eyes and groaned a little. The day dragged. She typed until the small round keys seemed to weigh a pound apiece under her fingers, and still the reports piled up. Laura sat hunched over her machine for a long time after the others had left for the day. She meant to work, but she never did any. She wanted to cry and she couldn’t. She wanted to move, to talk to someone, to explode, and she just sat there until the cramps in her back made her groan. She got up stiffly and put her jacket on and stood for a moment, aimless and lost. There was nowhere to go, nothing to do. Marcie wouldn’t be home yet.