“This will be the foyer, obviously,” Lisa said. “I had my guys hang the drywall and paint in here first thing because this is where you’ll be working and I don’t want them disturbing you once you start.” She motioned to the area in front of us. “There’ll be a counter here with information about the gallery, and volunteers will take turns manning it. And this”—she swept her arm through the air to take in the wall above the nonexistent counter—“this is where my father wants the mural.”

“Wow, that’s a big space,” I said. “How big is the mural?”

“Twelve feet by six, I believe.” Lisa looked toward the corner of the room behind us, and for the first time I noticed an enormous roll of canvas standing upright, the only thing in the otherwise empty room. “That’s it,” Lisa said, walking toward it. “I had the guys pull it out of the studio closet and haul it over here last week, but I didn’t want them to unroll it before you were here.”

I followed her across the tiled floor until we stood next to the broad, towering roll. “I’m five seven,” Lisa said, “so what do you think?”

I looked toward the top of the roll, which reached a good two feet above Lisa’s head. “Eight feet, at least,” I said. The outside of the roll was covered in muslin. I pulled away a piece of the fabric to find the unpainted border of the canvas beneath it. I touched the canvas, gingerly, afraid it might disintegrate beneath my fingertips and steal my job and my freedom from me before I even began, but the canvas felt firm to my touch.

“Well,” Lisa said with a reluctant-sounding sigh. “Might as well get a look at this thing.”

I watched her disappear through an interior doorway to another part of the gallery, calling the name “Oliver.” Soon she returned with three men, two of them wearing sweaty sleeveless tees and multipocketed khaki workpants, the third in a green T-shirt and jeans. They looked at me and I felt their scrutiny. The two in the workpants were about my age, the third closer to thirty. They were the first men I’d seen besides prison guards in over a year. Their presence, their earthy scent, their very existence—especially the green-eyed blond guy who, except for his man bun, looked a lot like Trey—felt intoxicating. All my nerve endings were suddenly on fire.

“You the painter?” one of them asked. He was as dark skinned as Lisa and wore dreadlocks pulled together into a long plait down his back.

“Yes,” I said.