At the first donor meeting of the day, Angel sat next to Conley, laughing at a joke one of the benefactors made about the weather. Her laughter was a small, controlled instrument; it made the room feel like a stage, and I was the stage manager ensuring the lighting would not fail. I handed documents, smoothed a napkin, and watched their hands, the way Conley’s palm brushed Angel’s knee once in passing. It was a tiny, casual gesture, but it carried a weight that made my throat close.
After the meeting, when the donors had left pleased and flushed with the idea of giving, Conley asked me to join him for a quick drive to the new community site. He wanted me to see what Angel had suggested in the plans; he wanted my practical eye to comb through the promises of architects and community liaiso
