“Does it ever make you feel small?” I ask.
Carrson furrows his brow, “What?”
“All this?” I point, “It’s sobig. The Order.”
He straightens, lighter now that we’ve moved from talk about children and parents. “That’s not even the whole thing. Just the American part.”
My eyes widen at that.
“There are branches all over the world. Other universities too,” Carrson lowers his voice, becomes conspiratorial. “One time, my father told me there was a college in Ireland with kids like Ashford House, except he said those kids were psychic. Like they could read each other’s mind and shit.”
“No way,” I scoff.
He nods. “I’m dead serious, although my father had a few screws loose, and he liked to mess with me, so I never believed what he said.”
Carrson grows thoughtful, returning to my question, “It does make me feel small, especially because I don’t understand it all yet, but I hope once I’m in charge it will make me feel bigger, maybe, I don’t know, powerful. In control.” He lets out a wistful sigh, “I’ve never really felt like that.”
I crawl over to sit by his feet, wanting to be near him.
“But you’re in charge of Ashford House,” I say, “Doesn’t that make you powerful?”
“I’m not sure,” he hangs his head. “Jackson’s right, as much as I hate to admit it. I lead, but…” He exhales. “I’m not a great leader.”
“Why not?”
He rubs the back of his neck, “I can fight and win, that’s the easy part.” He pauses and I don’t interrupt. I wait, watching him, letting the silence do its work. “It’s everything after that’s a problem.”
I tilt my head at that. “What do you mean?”
“It doesn’t make anyone listen. It doesn’t make them loyal.” His gaze comes back to mine. “They fall in line when they have to. The second I let my guard down they turn to someone else.”
“So make them want to follow you,” I say.
“I don’t know if I can. I’m not good at faking it,” he says. “Managing them. Pretending I care about every minor problem.” His jaw flexes. “It’s inefficient.”
I study him, turning that over.
He isn’t unsure, I decide.
He’s uninterested.
“That doesn’t make you a bad leader,” I say. “It makes you a selective one. You don’t lack control,” I continue. “You lack a reason to use it.”
“You think?” His eyes narrow thoughtfully.
“Yes.” I scoot closer until my shoulder rests lightly against his leg, drawn in by him. “Right now, you’re winning because you can. Because you’re stronger than them.”
“I am,” he says evenly.
“I know.” My voice lowers slightly, not challenging.Aligning.
He doesn’t interrupt, so I keep going. “You could do more than keep them in line.” I let the silence stretch out, let him think it through.
His gaze holds mine. “Such as?”
“You could decide what matters. What gets attention. What gets resources.” I pause, then add, quieter, “What gets funded.” I gesture over at the pile of paper I’ve titled Research.
I don’t look at him when I say it. “Remi died because cystic fibrosis isn’t a big enough disease to matter. Not enough people get it to make it worth the investment.” My throat goes scratchy, but I push through. “That’s the excuse, anyway.”
