I raised an eyebrow.
“That sounds suspiciously like help.”
“It was in the staffing plan six months before I met you.”
“Convenient.”
“You asked for source documents. Check page forty-six.”
I did.
He was right.
I hated that.
“What’s the hourly rate?”
He told me.
It was nearly six dollars more than I made at the diner.
“Temporary?”
“Until the permanent operations team is selected.”
“Open applications?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll apply like everyone else.”
“I assumed you would.”
I stared at him.
That was the first moment I trusted him enough to be annoyed by him personally.
It felt like progress.
The night before the vote, I found the problem.
Not a scandal.
Not hidden theft.
Nothing dramatic.
Just three sentences buried in a sixty-page operating agreement.
The proposed commercial partner would receive priority access to the Meridian’s largest community room during peak weekends.
That room was the only space large enough for neighborhood graduations, youth performances, local meetings, and affordable receptions.
