He stood in front of the pathetic little mirror in his pathetic little dressing room, trying to match ties to shirts. None of the brighter colors he usually liked felt like they’d be a good fit for what he’d be talking about, but he had exactly one shirt on his rack that wasn’t bright and cheery, and it was white and boring. He’d narrowed his choices to a pale pink, and a pale violet shirt, and any tie that might go with either. Which was all of them and none of them at the same time.

“Purple,” Nichola said from behind him suddenly. “Open collar. No jacket.”

Despite her heavy black bear build, she was amazing at sneaking up without being heard. Walter turned his head to watch her walk into the room, closing the door behind her.

“Purple, huh?” He pulled off his T-shirt and tossed it onto the sofa. After a moment’s thought, he grabbed a plain white one from the rack and pulled it on, careful not to catch the cut on his lip. It pulled all the fur on his back awkwardly, making him squirm and tug on the fabric to feel right again.

“They gave us a full two for Friday,” Nichola said, putting her coffee down on Walter’s desk before she stepped close to him. She waited until he was done to tilt his face up toward the lights. “That is nasty,” she said, peering at the bruise under his fur. “Too bad the camera won’t see it.”

“I thought about thinning stuff out.” But then he’d have to deal with his fur being thinned out and growing back in all awkwardly. He shrugged as he put his shirt on. “I look like I’ve got fucking herpes anyway, so let’s keep the camera off that side as much as possible.” He finished buttoning his shirt and teased some of the dense fur on his throat and chest out over the collar. It made him look like he was being choked, but it was better than feeling like it.

“That does look like herpes,” Nichola agreed. She picked up her coffee again, and handed Walter the small folder she’d brought in with her. “They’ve already got the clip. I sent it over last night.”

Walter quickly flipped through the short list of notes Nichola wanted him to hit on. “I didn’t know they agreed to the interview,” he said.

“This morning, yeah,” Nichola said.

Walter hummed quietly to himself as he read over the rest of it, before slapping the folder shut. “They’re syndicating this, right?” he asked, already stepping toward the door.

“That’s what I’ve been told.” Nichola waited for a moment, watching Walter fuss with his cuffs, before continuing. “I’ve also been told that the network doesn’t want you pressing charges.”

Walter looked up sharply. “What? The little fucks are lucky I didn’t kill them,” he said.

Nichola nodded. “They are,” she agreed. “And now they’re going to be lucky that the big, scary brute with the big, scary lawyers is only going drag them through the court of public opinion, and stop there.”

“How is that supposed to be fair?” Walter asked.

“It’s fair because you’re getting paid a lot of money to go talk about what happened, and these kids are in high school, and did stupid high school shit. Be the adult. I know it’s hard.”

Walter rolled his eyes and left the room. His own set overlapped with Good Morning Cascadia’s set to maximize space, giving him a good idea of how exactly he wanted to throw his weight around. The show didn’t go live for another half hour, which gave him just enough time to do a dry run with the host, and then get out of the way for the rest of the calls. He found Brenda Kite, the show’s host, talking to one of her producers in the middle of the set. Some of the younger staff seemed nervous as they rushed to get their jobs done, but whether it was from normal show stress, or his presence during their time slot, Walter wasn’t sure. But at a certain point, stress all looked the same.

He walked up to Brenda, making sure whatever train of thought she was engaged in seemed to be finished. “Brenda,” he said, putting on a friendly smile.

She turned toward him, her own friendly smile seeming genuine. “Mister Walter Jung. I finally get to meet you,” she said, holding out a paw.

Walter shook it, looking away to glance around the set. Her lighting was different than his, like it was trying to make those fake windows at the back of the set seem like they were letting in mid-morning sun. He hated it. “I don’t think I’ve ever stepped in this building before noon,” he said. It wasn’t exactly the truth, but it wasn’t a total lie either.

Brenda paused, studying him with sharp green eyes for a moment. “You sound different than usual,” she said.

Walter shrugged, choosing not to answer a question that wasn’t directly asked. “Shall we?” He held up his folder full of notes.

“Yes!” Brenda said quickly. She motioned toward the small breakfast table in the middle of the set, letting herself hang as she deferred to him.

“Why not the couch?” Walter asked, motioning toward the dais at the back of the set. “For continuity.”

Brenda glanced over and clapped her paws together. “That’s right, this is being syndicated, isn’t it? And you’re the reason I have to keep changing my lights.”

She laughed brightly as she led the way over to the sofa. Walter had never actually sat on it before. His spot was always in the chair, where Brenda had sat down. He looked over at the fake windows, trying to peer up at the backdrop she used, showing the entire city spreading out for miles, with rolling hills far in the distance, and Mt Hood looming over it all from beyond the horizon, like some crispy white sentinel. He tried to figure out where the photo had been taken from. Definitely not from the two-story building in the middle of Kerns. He never liked those backdrops, and always changed them to a brick facade when he used this part of the set in the evenings.