The next week he came to the community center in a navy suit and no tie, accompanied only by one assistant who looked alarmed by the neighborhood’s lack of polished surfaces. Maya had almost told him not to come. She was glad she didn’t.
He did not turn it into a performance. He met the director. He sat in on a budget review. He asked irritatingly intelligent questions about administrative leakage, reimbursement structures, and why the city grant process seemed designed to punish honesty. He walked through classrooms that smelled like crayons, old radiator heat, and summer sweat. He spoke to a teenage volunteer who told him bluntly that most rich people only liked poor children when cameras were present.
“What about you?” Taylor asked.
The girl folded her arms. “I’m deciding.”
When they left, he was quiet all the way to the car.
That night on the terrace, city heat rising around them, he said, “I have lived in this city for fifteen years and there are blocks of it I’ve apparently never entered in any meaningful way.”
