This is an edition of The Atlantic Daily, a newsletter that guides you through the biggest stories of the day, helps you discover new ideas, and recommends the best in culture. Sign up for it here.The physical space in which a person works, or hopes to work, intersects with their most personal choices. Today we’re checking in on the remote-work debate and why it remains so heated.First, here are four new stories from The Atlantic:
The businessmen broke Hollywood.

The Hollywood machine—from script writing, to shooting and production, to late-night talk-show PR—has officially ground to a halt.On Thursday, the actors went on strike. The 160,000 members of SAG-AFTRA, led by Fran Drescher, the fearless sitcom nanny, stopped working after talks with the studios collapsed. They join the ranks of the Writers Guild of America, whose members (myself included) have been on strike since May.Our two unions have not been on strike together since 1960.

It’s not that hard to say my name, Saahil Desai. Saahil: rhymes with sawmill, or at least that gets you 90 percent there. Desai: like decide with the last bit chopped off. That’s really it.More often than not, however, my name gets butchered into a menagerie of gaffes and blunders. The most common one, Sa-heel, is at least an honest attempt—unlike its mutant twin, a monosyllabic mess that comes out sounding like seal. Others defy all possible logic.

Last year, the state of Alabama made history by botching three consecutive executions in its death chamber. Two of the condemned men survived their own executions: Alan Miller and Kenneth Smith. Both were pierced repeatedly with needles in an attempt to set IV lines until the midnight expiry of their death warrants forced their executioners to halt further attempts to kill them.

This article was featured in One Story to Read Today, a newsletter in which our editors recommend a single must-read from The Atlantic, Monday through Friday. Sign up for it here.In February, two months before my 40th birthday, my left breast became swollen and painful. I chalked it up to the catchall pile of indignities known as perimenopause. But March and April came and went, and my breast seemed worse. May arrived, and I scrambled to schedule a mammogram.

This article was originally published by High Country News.It’s a crisp fall evening in Grand Teton National Park. A mournful, groaning call cuts through the dusky-blue light: a male elk, bugling. The sound ricochets across the grassy meadow. A minute later, another bull answers from somewhere in the shadows.Bugles are the telltale sound of elk during mating season. Now new research has found that male elks’ bugles sound slightly different depending on where they live.