My mother watched us, her leather purse clutched tightly against her stomach like a shield.

Her eyes darted to the stained concrete floor, then to the dusty shelves filled with spare wires and soldering irons.

“This is not what we discussed, Sarah,” she said, her voice losing its performative warmth.

“We discussed a profile on your transition from academia to executive leadership,” she said.

“That is what the selection committee at the foundation wants to see.”

“I don’t care what the committee wants to see,” I said, looking her in the eyes.

“The foundation didn’t build this grid.”

“The people in this room did, along with twenty volunteers from the neighborhood.”

Derek looked up from his monitor, a small, quiet smile showing on his face.

My dad, who had been standing silently by the entrance stairs the entire time, took a slow step forward.

He looked at the map, then at me, and gave a single, slow nod of approval.

“The light is actually perfect by this map,” the photographer said, raising his camera to his eye.

“Can we get a shot of you pointing to the community center, Sarah?”