Jenny's last meal had been yesterday noon at a coffee shop on South Street. As soon as she stepped out of the magazine department, she felt as if her soul had been drained, and the neglected hunger consumed all her attention. Before long, she sat in a sandwich shop on Dover Street near the building and handed the waiter fifteen cents. Things on Dover Street were generally more expensive than on South Street; nearby Water Street had more seafood and even pricier restaurants. Here and on Water Street, she didn't have to worry about running into people from the printing factory. Soon, a waitress in a light blue cotton dress carried a brass long-spouted pot and poured some hot black tea into the cup in front of Jenny. Jenny picked it up and took a sip—it was so astringent she almost choked. Then she took a bite of the just-served sandwich. The bread was too dry and hard, the surface burnt, with overly salty bacon, cold fried egg, and sour cucumber slices. If she weren't starving, she might have thrown it up. Still, it was much better than the bitter, flavorless coffee and rough rye bread that could scratch your throat at the coffee shop. Her interest wasn't in eating at the moment, but in the row of dumbbell-shaped red brick apartments across from the shop—they belonged to Dawling Publishing Company and were used as dormitories. The company provided them free to clerks, typists, assistant editors, and regular employees of various departments to live in. This wasn't because Dawling was charitable, but because they needed these employees on call 24/7. Living in the dormitory meant being close to the company; even if something came up in the middle of the night and they needed to rush a manuscript, the editorial department could always find them. Compared to the printing department workers who worked in three shifts and weren't provided dormitories, these office employees enjoyed much better treatment. In Jenny's eyes, that dormitory wasn't just a place to live; it could save her a third of her salary every month. It was a lifeline. Otherwise, with the cost of living in Manhattan, she wouldn't be able to save a single cent. Thinking of this, she immediately felt hopeful about life. Although the interview results weren't certain, there were different ranks among clerks. She had heard that in the magazine department, the best position for a clerk was to work under the section head's secretary—like the two clerk positions beside Frank. The work was leisurely, and you could see the section head every day, occasionally even the executive editor. If the section head took a liking to you, you might be promoted to his personal typist, helping to polish manuscripts ready for publication. Such typists could have their names printed on the last page of the publication—that was considered making it. Next best was working in the open office with full editors or assistant editors. The tasks were miscellaneous and the work hard, but there were many opportunities. Not only could you face your superiors, but you could also directly interact with authors and their mailed correspondence. The least popular position was working as a proofreading clerk in the magazine's composing room. To ensure efficiency, Dawling had each magazine maintain its own composing and proofreading rooms, usually shared by several sections. With the small door closed, all the initially selected manuscripts for the entire magazine piled up in front of you, and six or seven clerks usually sat there all day. The work was monotonous, and you never saw your superiors—only the secretary. Jenny didn't want to fetch tea and act as a meat shield for the section head under a secretary like Frank, nor did she want to waste her youth in a boring proofreading room. What she most wanted was to work with full editors and assistant editors, doing the most miscellaneous tasks—the more work, the better to show off her skills. Having made up her mind, Jenny returned to the hotel where she had stayed the night before, used the wages she'd collected from the printing factory that morning, and extended her stay for another day. After renewing the room, she didn't laze around sleeping. Instead, she took her bag downstairs, went to the bookstore on the ground floor, and bought the last two months' issues of Century Weekly. At ten cents each, twenty-four pages total, the profit per issue was squeezed to the limit, but each issue sold in quantities of a hundred thousand, generating an annual revenue figure Jenny couldn't even dream of. Thinking that she might soon have a deep connection with this magazine made her heart pound with excitement. The clerk interview tested basic skills—everything used in the editorial office: typing, proofreading, bookkeeping, shorthand, manuscript review, and other general office skills like sending mail, drafting different letters and manuscripts according to specific formats, organizing files, filling out forms, and processing receipts. Most of these tasks she had done before during her part-time job at the post office, but she had never touched a typewriter or done proofreading or manuscript review. However, in her previous life, she had plenty of experience, so she could only hope her muscle memory would come through. Jenny was nervous all day and hardly slept. She even dreamed that she failed the interview, crouched crying under the building, and finally slunk back to her hometown to continue feeding pigs and picking eggs on the farm. She woke up in a cold sweat. The next morning, light snow fell. Horses and carriages trod through the snow, and the Dawling Building was as busy as ever. Holding the business card Frank had given her, Jenny first registered as a visitor in the lobby, then was allowed upstairs. When she reached the Century Weekly editorial department, a long line filled the hallway, crowded with young men and women. A clerk was registering them and arranging interview batches. In front of her stood four or five young girls who seemed to know each other. They looked like they came from a shorthand and typing school, led by a teacher, and were chatting idly as if no one else was around. One girl in a red pinstriped cotton dress looked worried and said nervously, "I heard the dorms here are on nearby Dover Street. I wonder if they're worse than our school dorms..." "...I heard the dorms are pretty good. There are double rooms; typists who need to work late get single rooms. Assistant editors live in suites in the East Building. If we get accepted, we'll probably stay in the South Building dorms, which have double and quadruple rooms, with two rooms sharing a bathroom and kitchen. This year, several clerks in the women's dorm got married and quit, so there are plenty of empty rooms to choose from. You can also choose not to live in the dorm, but your salary stays the same—no extra compensation." The young girl who answered wore a blue polka-dot cotton dress and seemed outgoing. Jenny stood quietly behind, listening to their conversation. After the front group registered, it was Jenny's turn. She took out the business card and showed it to the registrar clerk. "Recommended by Frank? How much did you pay him?" The clerk looked Jenny up and down. Jenny smiled innocently; whenever she made that expression, people usually stopped asking. The clerk shook his head. His girlfriend had also wanted to pull strings, and he had gone to Frank offering money, but Frank refused. After writing down Jenny's name and recommender, the clerk grouped her with the seven or eight people ahead. "Your group will be the fifth round." Then the clerk walked away, busy with registration again. Jenny noted her order. When she looked up, she noticed the people in front turning around to size her up. The girl in the blue polka-dot dress, who had been chatting as if no one was behind, suddenly seemed to realize Jenny was there. She smiled and extended her hand. "Hello, I'm Fujena, and this is Polly." Jenny nodded and shook hands with them in turn. "Jenny. Jones." After that, she withdrew her hand and stood still. She was nervous now and trying to calm herself down, not in the mood for small talk. Fujena noticed and misunderstood. She turned back and continued talking to the equally nervous Polly, her voice slightly lower than before. Jenny looked at the seemingly endless line. She stood against the wall for about an hour, silently reciting the basic information and content framework of Century Weekly she had organized the day before three times. If anyone asked, she could speak it all without hesitation, without needing to think on the spot. Before her transmigration, when she worked in an editorial office, print media was no longer at its peak. Whether recruiting for interviews or collaborating with authors, aside from content red lines, everything else was handled amicably. But this was the late 19th century, the golden age of print media. Print was the only voice in the market, a battlefield of contention and a hundred schools of thought, and the atmosphere in the editorial office was just as intense. At the door of the editorial department, a clerk poked his head out and called, "Next batch, come in!" Jenny clenched her hands, quickly following the others. The cubicle was the one Frank had pointed to the day before. Inside, the space was wide, with bright windows and clean surroundings. A long table was placed in the room. On the side near the window sat several well-dressed middle-aged and young gentlemen. The male clerk introduced them one by one: the four in the middle were the full editors of the two sections, and the two on each side were the assistant editors of the two sections. Frank sat at the far left, and at the far right was the secretary of the other section head, Mr. York, whose surname was Wood. These eight editors were the backbone of the weekly, all with the right to have their names published. Jenny introduced herself in order, stating her name, past part-time experience, and recommender, then sat down in front of a typewriter across from them. The first round of the interview tested manuscript transcription shorthand—a fundamental skill for every publishing house employee, more important than eating or drinking. The typewriter in front of her was the latest Remington No. 2, with half the number of keys compared to the Remington No. 1 from seven years ago (which had over seventy), and it could switch between uppercase and lowercase letters. The only inconvenience was extremely low fault tolerance: the roller blocked the line being typed, requiring blind typing, and corrections weren't possible—you had to wait until the page was finished, pull it out, and black out errors. But since the company paid high wages for clerks and typists, they couldn't tolerate a single mistake. Jenny had only seen the Remington No. 1 at the post office, never used the latest model. She took the old manuscript distributed by the clerk—everyone got three pages, handed out randomly on the spot. The male clerk signaled them to start, and immediately the room filled with the clatter of typing. Jenny was a bit slower than others in mounting the paper onto the typewriter. Once ready, she also began typing from the manuscript.