Chapter 3 - The Boardroom and the Basement
The next morning, the Terry Enterprises executive boardroom was suffocatingly tense. Andrew sat at the head of the mahogany table, staring at a massive digital map of the city's West District.
"We are looking at a 22% increase in projected yield if we fast-track the demolition of the St. Jude sector," the CFO announced, tapping a laser pointer against the screen. "The zoning permits are approved. We can clear out the remaining low-income structures by the end of the fiscal quarter. It’s a clean sweep."
Andrew looked at the map. The St. Jude sector. Right in the heart of it was the faded red brick icon marking the church basement he had stood in the night before.
Displaced units. That’s what his executives called them.
"Sir?" the CFO asked, noticing Andrew’s prolonged silence. "Should we authorize the demolition contracts?"
Andrew stood up, buttoning his suit jacket. "The demolition is suspended."
A collective gasp rippled through the room. "But Andrew," the VP of Development stammered, "we’ve already sunk millions into the acquisition. The investors are expecting—"
"I don't care what they're expecting," Andrew snapped, his voice ringing with a fierce authority that startled everyone present. "The project is on hold. Furthermore, I want a full demographic and social impact report on every resident currently living within a three-block radius of that church. I want to know where they go, what they need, and how much it costs to keep them there."
Leaving his stunned board behind, Andrew walked out of the glass tower and drove back to the St. Jude basement alone. It was mid-afternoon. The soup kitchen wasn't open, but the heavy wooden doors of the church were unlocked.
He walked down the concrete steps, the smell of damp stone and old timber filling his senses. At the bottom, he found an elderly man in a faded collar sweeping the floor. This was Father Thomas.
"Can I help you, son?" the priest asked, wiping his brow.
"I'm Andrew Terry."
Father Thomas stopped sweeping. He leaned on his broom, his old eyes instantly reading the expensive suit, the tense shoulders, and the deep rings of exhaustion under Andrew’s eyes.
"Ah," Father Thomas said softly. "Elizabeth’s boy."
"She talks about me?" Andrew asked, feeling a strange, childlike lump form in his throat.
"Every day," Father Thomas replied. "She prays for you every single day, Andrew. She prays that the boy who used to cry in her arms when the world was too loud would remember how to feel again. She didn't want you to find this place because she was terrified you would do exactly what your company does best: dismantle it."
May you like
Andrew looked around the empty basement, visualizing the crowded tables from the night before. "I want to help," he whispered. "But I don't know how to do it without making it a transaction. It's the only way I know how to live."
Father Thomas smiled gently, setting his broom aside. "Then roll up your sleeves, Mr. Terry. The evening rush starts in three hours, and we are short on potatoes."
