His voice shifts, gets quieter. "Thank you."
I meet his eyes.
"I know you hate not being able to explain it. Yet you still defended it."
We sit in silence. A jogger passes on the path behind us. The water laps against the concrete barrier.
My shoulders drop.
Tom studies me for a second.
"Next time," he says, "we handle it together."
I glance at him. "Next time?"
He doesn't smile. "There's always a next time."
I don't argue.
Tom stands and offers me his hand. I take it, and we walk back toward the street together.
Chapter forty
Tom
If we can't deliver on this timeline, they walk.
My jaw tightens.
I reread the email. The timestamp says 5:36 AM. The subject line says urgent.
Emergency meeting confirmed: our lead investor (40%) is considering pulling out.
To keep them committed, we need proof-of-concept materials—including final photography—in two weeks.
Not four.
I check the recipient line. Me and Sam, both cc'd.
It's 5:38 AM. I've been awake since five, laptop open, clearing the inbox that's been piling up all week. Agent queries. Equipment rental confirmations. Invoice from the print lab. The usual operational debris.
This email landed two minutes ago. Sam probably hasn't seen it yet.
Two weeks.
I open my calendar. I start filling the grid. Dawn shoots. Midday site work. Night editing.
Fourteen days without a break.
I stare at the schedule.
The Wednesday block marked “Sam” disappears first.
If I shoot the wrong angles, Sam's presentation story collapses. If I prioritize documentation over hero shots, the investor won't see the vision. If I'm too exhausted by Day Seven to notice I missed the pedestrian flow she needs for the connectivity argument, we both fail.
I close my eyes. Open them.
I stare at the schedule.
