She spotted a prototype casing we used as a paperweight and picked it up.

“Here,” she said, pressing the cold aluminum block into my hands.

“Marcus, how is the lighting over here by the sign?” she asked.

Marcus raised the camera to his eye.

“It’s a bit dark, but the flash will pick up the details,” he said. “Could you two lean in closer?”

I felt the weight of the metal casing in my palms.

It felt absurd, standing in a dark office, holding a hollow piece of aluminum for a staged photo.

Downstairs, the generator roared again, a heavy, mechanical cough that vibrated through the floorboards.

“Is that safe?” Marcus asked, looking toward the basement door.

“It is perfectly fine,” Mom said quickly. “Just the sound of progress.”

She reached over and smoothed down the collar of my damp flannel shirt.

“Smile, Sarah,” she whispered under her breath, her voice sharp as a razor. “This will be on the front page of the business section on Sunday.”

I looked at the lens of the camera, then at my mother’s polished, expectant face.