Sierra Club, the Nature Conservancy or the World Wildlife Fund, ACRE was the shrimpy kid tagging along at the edge of the crowd. Unlike its counterparts, ACRE really had concentrated on preserving one acre at a time.
Personally, he didn’t think small. The world’s resources were too precious and vanishing too quickly to rescue in tiny parcels. He was encouraged that Dennis Lavin, the new executive director, wanted to take the organization in a different direction. But Isaac’s personal plan was to continue the climb at ACRE or a similar nonprofit, then move into government when an administration that was truly committed to environmental protection took office. By then he might well have enough connections for a job where he could make a real difference.
He had managed to banish thoughts of Kendra with thoughts of his future, but they came back as he locked the car, his eyes open for interlopers. Every time he pictured the carjacking or remembered the moment he had learned she was on the way to the hospital, he felt sick.
The gloomy garage didn’t help. Rather than take the dark ramp up to the elevator, he walked down into the spring sunshine. Outside, he crossed to Gene’s Beans, which all the ACRE staff frequented because the little hole-in-the-wall had stood tall against the corporate giants determined to take over the coffee world. Gene knew every employee’s preferences, and he was always on the premises.
Isaac was on his way inside when he glimpsed a ragged cat scratching itself at the corner of the brick building beside the alley that provided parking slots for Gene’s staff. The ginger tabby looked as if he had grown up on D. C.’s streets. He was Garfield without the paunch, but judging by the way he eyed Isaac, he had all the comic strip cat’s sass and bravado, plus an ear that had been noticeably chewed up in a fight. Isaac turned for a closer look.
“Hey, fellow. Looking for a handout?”
The cat had cynical eyes. He tilted his misshapen head, as if to say, I know your game, buster, and I ain’t playin’ .
“Somebody tied a can or two to that tail, didn’t they,” Isaac said.
The cat struck a pose that clearly said, What’s it to you?
Isaac went inside for his breakfast.
The cat was still beside Gene’s Dumpster when he returned, but it dodged the hand he held out and abandoned him for something more promising in the alley. Isaac crossed the street to start his day.
Dennis Lavin was just getting to the office, too. He was nearly Isaac’s height, twenty years his senior and bald enough to make a comb-over futile. Probably to draw attention elsewhere, he had grown a salt-and-pepper beard and mustache that were always perfectly trimmed. Isaac wondered if the beard was also a statement that Dennis was a liberal in whom ACRE could place its faith, even if his suits and approach to management were strictly Brooks Brothers standard issue.
“I like to see my staff putting in long hours,” Dennis said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Good to see you making up some of those days you missed, even though we didn’t begrudge a one of them. Your wife’s recovering nicely?”
Isaac knew better than to say he didn’t know, but it didn’t matter, because Dennis immediately began a recital of all he intended to accomplish that day, ending with a curt wave as he headed for his office suite.
By nine, Isaac was glad he had arrived early. He’d managed to cull his e-mail, respond to three serious inquiries from potential donors, and write a short summary of the speech he planned to give at an upcoming conference on America’s rain forests.
His staff had trickled in all morning, stopping to exchange a few pleasantries. His assistant, Heather Griswold, left a homemade chocolate chip muffin on his desk, another team member left an article from the New York Times . By ten they assembled in the closest conference room to compare notes on the week to come. In the afternoon, he would go over his notes
Personally, he didn’t think small. The world’s resources were too precious and vanishing too quickly to rescue in tiny parcels. He was encouraged that Dennis Lavin, the new executive director, wanted to take the organization in a different direction. But Isaac’s personal plan was to continue the climb at ACRE or a similar nonprofit, then move into government when an administration that was truly committed to environmental protection took office. By then he might well have enough connections for a job where he could make a real difference.
He had managed to banish thoughts of Kendra with thoughts of his future, but they came back as he locked the car, his eyes open for interlopers. Every time he pictured the carjacking or remembered the moment he had learned she was on the way to the hospital, he felt sick.
The gloomy garage didn’t help. Rather than take the dark ramp up to the elevator, he walked down into the spring sunshine. Outside, he crossed to Gene’s Beans, which all the ACRE staff frequented because the little hole-in-the-wall had stood tall against the corporate giants determined to take over the coffee world. Gene knew every employee’s preferences, and he was always on the premises.
Isaac was on his way inside when he glimpsed a ragged cat scratching itself at the corner of the brick building beside the alley that provided parking slots for Gene’s staff. The ginger tabby looked as if he had grown up on D. C.’s streets. He was Garfield without the paunch, but judging by the way he eyed Isaac, he had all the comic strip cat’s sass and bravado, plus an ear that had been noticeably chewed up in a fight. Isaac turned for a closer look.
“Hey, fellow. Looking for a handout?”
The cat had cynical eyes. He tilted his misshapen head, as if to say, I know your game, buster, and I ain’t playin’ .
“Somebody tied a can or two to that tail, didn’t they,” Isaac said.
The cat struck a pose that clearly said, What’s it to you?
Isaac went inside for his breakfast.
The cat was still beside Gene’s Dumpster when he returned, but it dodged the hand he held out and abandoned him for something more promising in the alley. Isaac crossed the street to start his day.
Dennis Lavin was just getting to the office, too. He was nearly Isaac’s height, twenty years his senior and bald enough to make a comb-over futile. Probably to draw attention elsewhere, he had grown a salt-and-pepper beard and mustache that were always perfectly trimmed. Isaac wondered if the beard was also a statement that Dennis was a liberal in whom ACRE could place its faith, even if his suits and approach to management were strictly Brooks Brothers standard issue.
“I like to see my staff putting in long hours,” Dennis said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Good to see you making up some of those days you missed, even though we didn’t begrudge a one of them. Your wife’s recovering nicely?”
Isaac knew better than to say he didn’t know, but it didn’t matter, because Dennis immediately began a recital of all he intended to accomplish that day, ending with a curt wave as he headed for his office suite.
By nine, Isaac was glad he had arrived early. He’d managed to cull his e-mail, respond to three serious inquiries from potential donors, and write a short summary of the speech he planned to give at an upcoming conference on America’s rain forests.
His staff had trickled in all morning, stopping to exchange a few pleasantries. His assistant, Heather Griswold, left a homemade chocolate chip muffin on his desk, another team member left an article from the New York Times . By ten they assembled in the closest conference room to compare notes on the week to come. In the afternoon, he would go over his notes
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