“So. I know you’re moving. The good news is that the new managing editor really likes the idea of having somebody in Ithaca. Who knows why. Guess he’s attached to the place. You can work remotely with the East Coast team. You’ll be a one-person Ithaca bureau,” he says, and laughs like I’ve won a prize.

I say I still want a raise. I try to be firm, like my dad said. I tell Corey about my other job offers, but my voice comes out splintered. I am not convincing.

“You’re incredibly valuable to us as a reporter,” he says, as though some supportive words are equivalent to concrete change, money, and power.

I tell him that if I don’t get a raise, I may consider going freelance or just leaving, period.

“You know we don’t have piles of money lying around,” he says. “This is journalism we’re talking about. This isn’t the kind of job where you make piles of money. It’s about loving the work, putting your heart into it.”

What about the piles going into the remodel of the office? What about the piles used to hire all these new people from other places, assuming they all got pay bumps to come over here? What about the piles used for his raise? What about the piles . . .