Not hard, but firm. I said options. And I'm not talking about me writing you a check and you cashing it. I'm talking about other options. The community center proposal.
There are funding avenues in that proposal that could generate income if the model is right. There are people in this neighborhood who owe you Olivia. Not in a way that's shameful, in a way that's real. She stared at him. Let me look at the proposal, he said.
Why? Because I've written funding proposals. For the software licensing deal, I had to present the whole business case to three different buyers. I know what these documents need to look like. She was quiet.
I'm not offering you charity, he said. I'm offering you a second pair of eyes, that's all. The silence stretched. Then she picked up the legal pad and held it out to him. He took it.
He started reading right there, standing in the sideyard with the unfinished trim at his feet and the radio still playing quietly and the afternoon light coming down through the trees. He read for 12 minutes straight. Olivia sat very still and watched him read with the expression of someone who has handed over something that matters more than they intended to let on. When he looked up, she was watching him with guarded, careful eyes. It's good, he said.
Something moved in her face. You don't have to say that. I don't say things I don't mean. I have a rule about it. He held the pad.
The framework is strong. The programming model is solid. The case studies are compelling, but the budget section needs work. It's too conservative. Grant committees want to fund vision, not survival.
You need to show them what this looks like at scale, not just what it looks like when it's barely alive. She blinked. At scale. You're not asking for money to keep a small thing small. You're asking for money to build something this neighborhood needs.
Write it like you believe that. I do believe that. Then let it show. He handed the pad back. Can I see your numbers?