Chapter 24 - The Things That Keep a Door Open
Without the proposed grant, the workshop could afford six more weeks of Saturday transportation.
Daniel showed us the figures on a spreadsheet.
Not an estimate.
Six weeks.
After that, several teenagers would have no reliable way to reach the center.
I reached for my phone.
Lena looked at me.
“You can contribute,” she said. “But let’s finish the meeting.”
I put it down.
Around the table sat staff members, two parents, a volunteer mechanic, and a teenager named Luis who had been elected by the workshop participants.
Luis studied the budget.
“Why does everyone have to come here?”
Daniel leaned forward.
“What are you thinking?”
“The library has a room. Most of us can walk there. You can’t bring the big tools, but we don’t use those every week.”
The volunteer mechanic nodded slowly.
“Bicycle repairs could work outside, with permission.”
One parent offered to ask the library manager. Another suggested coordinating with an existing community shuttle instead of hiring separate transport.
The plan became smaller.
Then more practical.
Fewer sessions requiring travel. Portable tool kits. A rotating schedule between two locations.
Nobody looked at me for several minutes.
It was surprisingly pleasant.
Afterward, I made a disclosed contribution through the foundation’s ordinary process. Other supporters gave what they could. A hardware store offered supplies after Daniel provided a specific list.
No photograph of a grieving girl was required.
Ava returned the following Thursday.
I saw her through the workshop window and kept walking toward my meeting.
Ten minutes later, she knocked on the conference room door.
“Do you have a minute?”
“Of course.”
She remained standing.
“Mom thinks I should tell you why I came back.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know. She said that too.”
She shifted her backpack.
“I missed fixing things.”
I waited.
“And Daniel sent the new schedule. He didn’t ask if I was still mad.”
“He thought you should have the information.”
“Good.”
For a moment, I thought that was all.
Then she sat down.
“I don’t want to be the reason a program loses money.”
“You aren’t.”
“But they wanted—”
“They made an assumption about you. We had to correct it. The budget is the adults’ responsibility.”
She looked at me carefully.
“You mean that?”
“Yes.”
Outside, someone dropped a wooden panel. Daniel called out to ask whether everyone was all right.
Ava glanced toward the sound.
“I should help.”
She stood, then paused.
“How’s Noah?”
“Better. He still doesn’t like Mondays.”
“That may be unrelated.”
I smiled.
She did too.
After she left, I remained at the table, looking at the unfinished agenda.
The workshop would continue.
Ava had returned because she wanted to.
Neither outcome belonged entirely to me.
May you like
I was beginning to understand how much better that made them.
***
