Between Two Storms

The editor’s office smelled like burnt coffee and old ambition, which Wren Alcott had always thought was the exact right smell for journalism.

“Sloane Mercer,” said Cal Okafor, dropping a folder on the desk between them. “Marine biologist. Oceanographer. Running the most controversial climate research project on the East Coast.” He leaned back in his chair. “And according to three very reliable sources, sitting on data that could redefine how we understand ocean acidification.”

Wren picked up the folder. Inside: a photograph of a woman at a boat railing, squinting into a grey sky, dark hair cut short and pushed back by wind. Forties, maybe — hard to tell. The kind of face that had lived in weather and wasn’t apologizing for it.

“She won’t talk to press,” Cal continued. “Has turned down the Times, the Post, Wired, and Nature’s communications team.” He paused meaningfully. “But she did say yes to us. Specifically, she said yes to you.”

Wren looked up from the photograph. “Why me?”

“You wrote the piece on the Beaufort Sea ice shelf last year. She read it. Said it was the only climate journalism she’d seen in five years that didn’t either catastrophize or minimize.” Cal shrugged. “Her words. I’m taking the compliment.”

Wren studied the photograph again. Dr. Sloane Mercer looked like a person who did not suffer fools and had a precise, internally curated definition of fool that was broader than average.

“How long?” she asked.

“She’s giving you two weeks of access. After that, you write whatever you’ve got.” Cal looked at her over his coffee mug. “Full profile. Not a hit piece, not a puff piece. The real thing.”

“When do I start?”

“Monday. She’s at the Coastal Research Institute in Rockaway.” He paused. “Wren. She is notoriously difficult.”

“How notoriously?”

“The last journalist who tried an unauthorized profile of her work described the experience as ‘trying to interview a particularly intelligent lighthouse.’” Cal picked up his mug. “By which I think they meant: present, essential, and completely indifferent to your feelings.”

Wren smiled. She had interviewed sitting senators, a three-star general, and a famous novelist who had thrown a glass of water at her during the third question. She had a reasonably high tolerance for difficult.

“I’ll be fine,” she said.

She was slightly overconfident, it would turn out.

The Coastal Research Institute was a low, functional building set back from the water, with the institutional beige exterior of a place that spent its budget on equipment rather than aesthetics. Wren arrived on Monday at eight AM, as directed, and found the front desk occupied by a young man with the specific energy of someone who had been warned she was coming.

“Wren Alcott?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Dr. Mercer is in Lab Three.” He hesitated. “She asked me to tell you that the interview parameters were discussed in the agreement, and—” He checked a notepad. “Any deviation from those parameters will result in immediate termination of access.”

Wren kept her expression pleasant. “Thank you.”

“Also she doesn’t drink tea so if you were planning to bring tea as an icebreaker that will not be effective.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“Good.” He seemed relieved. “Down the hall, left at the aquariums, second door.”

Lab Three was a wide, bright space smelling of saltwater and chemicals. Equipment she couldn’t name lined the benches. At the far end, a woman stood with her back to the door, writing on a whiteboard in handwriting that was cramped and quick and covered an impressive percentage of available surface.

“Dr. Mercer,” Wren said.

“You’re four minutes early.” She didn’t turn. “I said eight. That means eight.”

“I’ll wait in the hall.”

A pause. “Don’t be precious about it.” She capped the marker and turned.

Up close, the photograph hadn’t lied. Sloane Mercer was angular and contained, with dark eyes that moved across Wren with the efficient assessment of a person who categorized things quickly and revised her categories reluctantly. She wore a lab coat over dark clothes and looked like someone who had decided, at some point, that charm was an inefficiency she didn’t need.

“You’re younger than I expected,” she said.

“I’m thirty-one.”

“I know how old you are.” She moved to the nearest bench, picked up a tablet. “I also read your tax records.”

Wren blinked. “I — what?”

“I’m joking.” Mercer looked at the tablet. “Mostly.” She set it down and finally looked at Wren with what appeared to be the full weight of her attention, which was considerable. “The agreement says two weeks, access to my field work and general research activities, no access to unpublished data without written consent, final review of any direct quotes. Is that your understanding?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” She moved toward the door to the lab’s inner area. “Keep up. I have a tide cycle to catch.”

Wren caught up.

Two weeks of access, she thought. A woman who read the ice shelf piece. A researcher with data that could change things.

She pulled out her notebook.

This, she thought, was going to be a very interesting fourteen days.