The board meeting ends with a smattering of polite applause, but it's hollow, like clapping at a funeral.
Papers shuffle, chairs scrape, and everyone files out already checking their phones. On the surface, it’s routine business. Underneath, it’s a death sentence waiting to be signed.
I gather my notes with steady hands that don’t match the thrum in my chest. They talked about numbers, three million here, one point eight there, as if they were debating cocktail menus instead of cutting the veins out of Janie’s program.
To them, it’s a line item. To me, it’s her job. Her identity. Her fight.
Men in suits file out, chattering about quarterly projections and market expansions. I stay rooted to my chair, waiting until everyone is gone.
Pope heads for the door, phone already pressed to his ear.
"Pope," I call out, my voice sharper than intended. "Can we talk?"
He glances at his watch. "Sure. Give me ten minutes to wrap this call."
I wave my hand at him and sit back down. He mouths without sound, "Coffee? Across the street?"
He points, and I nod as he disappears into the hall.
I head out and grab a coffee at Jittery Joe's. I grab a corner table and unbutton my suit jacket as I sit down in front of the window.
Pope walks in five minutes later and orders a coffee. He slides in across from me and dumps half a sugar packet into his coffee and stirs.
"Alright, Carter. Talk to me."
I lean forward, cutting through the bullshit. "I wanted to pick your brain about the meeting."
"I know you've got a personal stake in this initiative."
He has no idea.
"Yeah. Am I understanding this correctly? Outreach, without the Bransons' money, is it gone?"
Pope doesn't flinch. His eyes meet mine steadily, and I know the answer before he speaks.
"First thing to go. Three million isn't pocket change, even for us. I'm personally funding forty percent, but unless we find another donor, I don't think we can run this on just over a million a quarter."
My stomach drops. "And Janie?"
"We'd try to keep her. Shift to HR, maybe operations. She's talented, so she's safe. She just won't be working on this."
The rage rises before I can stop it. "That would kill her. She lives for this stuff."
"Dramatic much?" Pope raises an eyebrow. "It's business, Warren. We're not a charity. This is for optics. It won't go forever, just until we come up with a way to fund it."
"Outreach is everything to her. It's not just optics for her. It's what she built. Her entire fucking identity."
"Then maybe she needs a broader identity." He sighs, setting down his spoon. "Look, I like Harrelson. She's smart, driven. But what do you want me to do here, Carter? I bent over backwards to keep the Bransons. Call them."
I stare at the steam rising from my untouched coffee. Images flash through my mind—Janie's face when she presented the outreach metrics, Beckett running on the soccer field, the three of us decorating the Christmas tree. Our family, just beginning to form.
"What if I covered it?" The words escape before I can pull them back.
Pope freezes mid-sip. "Excuse me?"
"The three million. What if I put it up?"
"It's three million a year. That's twelve million for the four-year plan."