He's looking at me, and I can read everything. The fear. The hope. The challenge. I know his proposal inside and out. I know every weakness—the tiny sample size, the bias baked into his surveys, the way he's building policy on feelings instead of data.
I could protect him. Spin it. Make every weakness sound like a feature.
But that's not what he wants. If I protect him now, I'm saying he can't handle it. That's not love. That's condescension.
"Sam's proposal is built on a beautiful idea," I say. "Connection fosters resilience. Communities survive better together."
"I sense a 'but,'" Sterling says.
"He can't prove it. He talked to a handful people and built a theory about human behavior. That's not data. That's a focus group."
Sam's eyes widen. I keep going.
"His model is a beautiful painting of a house with no foundation. It's hope dressed up as policy."
Sam flinches. But he doesn't look away. And I see something shift in his expression. Not hurt.
Recognition.
There you are, his eyes say.There's my rival.
"The concept is strong," I add. "He's asking the right questions. He just hasn't found the right answers yet."
Sterling stares at me. Then he does something unexpected—he laughs. A short, sharp sound.
"One position," he says, almost to himself. His eyes move between us, assessing. "Such a shame, really. You'd make quite the team."
He says it like he's dissecting a specimen.
"But that's not how the world works, is it?" Sterling smiles. "One winner. One loser. That's the game."
I feel Sam tense beside me.
"Thank you for your time," Thorne says, closing her folder. "We'll be in touch."
"Soon," Sterling adds. His eyes don't leave us.
We stand.
"Thank you," Sam says to the panel.
We walk out together, the door clicking shut behind us. We walk in silence past the glass doors, around the corner. Away from observers. Then we both stop.
"That was..." Sam starts.
"Yeah," I say.
"You actually did it." He shakes his head, a weird, shaky laugh escaping him. "You eviscerated me in there."
"You eviscerated me first."
"I know." Sam runs a hand through his hair, destroying the careful styling. "God, Devan. 'Hope dressed up as policy'—"
"Too far? I can go back in. Tell them I was exaggerating—"
"No." He cuts me off. "It was right. It wasfair. I hit you just as hard."
"Harder. The 'shatters under real panic' thing was brutal."
