I turned to see Lisa looking directly at me, a mix of genuine gratitude and worry in her face. “It’ll be finished,” I said, assuring myself as much as I was her.

“Get out of here, Lisa,” Oliver said. “Everything’s under control.”

It was nearly noon when Oliver finished hanging all the wall texts. He walked over to where I was still inpainting blades of grass. Reaching toward me, he popped out one of my earbuds. “You’ve been sitting here for hours,” he said, bending over to pry the brush from my stiff hand. I was too tired to offer much resistance. “I’ll take over while you stretch your legs. There’s food in the kitchen, and the art is on the walls. Go enjoy it. The rooms look pretty incredible now that they’re full.”

My body seemed frozen in place in front of the mural. I looked up at him. Pointed to the brush in his hand. “That’s my job,” I said.

“Do you mind if I help?”

I thought about it. I was hot, tired, and hungry. Pointing to the color I’d mixed on my palette, I said, “This is what I’m using on the shaded area of the grass.”

“Got it.” He held his free hand out to me and I rose stiffly to my feet. “Take half an hour,” he said. “Just chill.”

In the kitchen, I wolfed down a rubbery piece of pizza I found in the refrigerator, then carried a Coke with me into the gallery. I was most interested in the work of the students Jesse had helped, financially or otherwise. I wished I could have had one of my paintings in the room with the other student art, but it didn’t really matter. The work I was proudest of would hang in the foyer, the first thing anyone would see when they walked into the gallery.

Some sculptures were displayed here and there in the student room, but I was more drawn to the two-dimensional art. I moved from painting to painting, reading the wall texts Oliver had put together for each one. I stopped at the etching of a plane, a marvel in its detail. The wall text told me that Jesse had discovered the student artist when the boy was in middle school and living in foster care. Reading the texts next to each piece touched me. I could hear Oliver’s voice in them as he described the artist’s background and connection to Jesse, and for the hundredth time, I wondered why Jesse had zeroed in on me to help.