The boys start loading the boxes into the rental van parked in our lot. They’re full of flyers about police shootings, SCORE pamphlets, “Know Your Rights” and “What to do if you get arrested” cards. Packs of black Sharpies for people to write our lawyers’ phone number on their skin in case those cards are confiscated. Two cases of three-inch, baby-pink buttons that say in bold black letters, UNARMED. Poster boards painstakingly hand-lettered with messages like #TODAYFORSHAE #TOMORROWFORALL, RUNNING WHILE BLACK IS NOT A CRIME, LOVE NOT HATE, EQUALITY IS JUSTICE, and BLACK IS BEAUTIFUL.

The boys walk back in after a trip to the van. “Yo, I think your dude is here,” one of them says.

“My dude?” I echo, cuffing him on the shoulder. “Have some respect.”

He grins. “Your boy?”

I can’t help but grin, too. “Okay, okay.”

I pull open the heavy front door. Sure enough, there is Alabaster Sloan.

“Good afternoon, sir. Welcome to Underhill Community Center.”

We shake hands. He has a firm, comfortable grip. He’s perfect. I hope my return handshake comes across as half that cool and confident.

“Ezekiel?” he asks.

“Yes, sir. But you can call me Zeke.”

He nods.

The boys appear for another load, and I motion them over. “Senator, these are two of our best volunteers, Lemanuel and Ricky.”

They perk up, standing straight. “Hi, Senator,” they mumble. They look both flattered and unsettled to be called out.

The senator smiles and shakes their hands in turn. “Thanks for what you’re doing. It’s important work.”

“Uh, thanks,” Ricky says.

“Happy to help,” Lemanuel adds.

They look at me, clearly unsure what to do next. “Finish the van, okay?”

“Yup, yup.” They grab more boxes and flee.

“Come on in.” I spread my hand out, inviting Senator Sloan deeper into the room. He moves past me comfortably, and weaves around the chairs to greet Kimberly. I flounder in his famous wake.

“Hello, Kimberly.” He knows her on sight. That’s impressive. They’ve met before, she told me. I assumed it was in passing.

“Hello … Senator.” She pauses in the middle of speaking. Maybe she, like me, isn’t sure what to call him. Senator? Reverend? Sir?

Senator Sloan grasps Kimberly by the shoulders and kisses her on the cheek. “Nice to see you again.”

I’m confused, but there’s no time to focus on that.

Yvonne flutters toward us. “Oh, hello, Senator.” She enfolds him in the wings of her long, flowing dress thing. “Welcome, welcome.”

Senator Sloan embraces her in kind. “Good to be back. Wish the circumstances were different.” Somehow, he makes the perfunctory comment sound warm and original. He’s a master communicator. I prepare myself to pay close attention to his every word, every gesture.

Yvonne says, “If you have a minute, I’d love to show you some of what’s been done with your most recent generous donation.”

“Of course, Yvonne.”