Sitting at my desk later, I felt the weight of the letterhead like a stone in my lap. A title gave me room to breathe, legitimacy to protect our late-night collisions, but it also demanded I perform in public a competence that would be examined by people who would count my mistakes and praise my successes. It was a new battlefield and I intended to be victorious.
By midday, Conley called a short meeting and invited me into the study. He closed the door and handed me a small envelope. Inside was a crisp card—my new title in gold type, my name inked beside his. It was a small, formal thing, but it meant the world.
“You wanted this,” he said quietly. “Now make it work.”
“I will,” I answered, and meant it with the same iron muscle I used to steady promissory notes and donor checks.
We were
