Keon pulls out onto the main road.
For the first five minutes, neither of us speaks.
Then Amara says, “What are you really running from?”
I finger the coin in my pocket again. Turn it between my thumb and forefinger.
I could lie.
Should lie.
But after watching her eviscerate predatory contracts for an hour, I figure she deserves something closer to the truth.
“A board member made decisions I should have stopped,” I say carefully.
She waits for me to elaborate.
I don’t.
“That’s it?” she asks. “That’s all you’re going to tell me?”
“It’s all you need to know for now,” I reply.
She turns to look out the window. “Okay.”
No pressing. No demands. Just acceptance that I’m not ready to say more.
It’s more grace than I deserve.
Keon pulls up to the clinic. We’ve got another hour of work before the day ends. Contract reviews for three more families.
We climb out of the SUV and walk back into the clinic side by side.
Marisol looks up from her desk. “How’d it go?”
“Good,” Amara says. “We’ve got six families ready to schedule pro bono consultations.”
“Seven,” I correct. “Mrs. Rolle’s daughter wants to review her lease, too.”
Marisol beams. “This is exactly what we needed. Thank you both.”
We head back to the office. The small room with concrete walls and a single steel desk.
The space where we’ve spent the last week sitting in, elbow to elbow, trying to pretend it doesn’t mean anything.
Because it fucking doesn’t!
Amara sets her canvas tote on the desk and pulls out her legal pad.
I boot up the laptop and pull up the foundation files.
Outside, the sun is starting to set. Orange light filters through the louvers, cutting geometric patterns across the concrete floor.
We’ve got work to do.
But for this one moment, sitting across from Amara in a converted bungalow on an island thousands of miles from the life I built in Manhattan, I think maybe I’m finally doing something that matters.
Even if it doesn’t fix the past.
