I looked at his folder, then met his terrified eyes, and offered my hand. “I’m Nora Bellamy.”

His eyes went wide. “The… the mud lady?”

I smiled, a deep, resonant peace settling in my chest. “Among other things. Come on. Let’s walk to the elevator together. And remember — they aren’t doing you a favor by letting you in the room. You’re bringing the value. Make them see it.”

He took a deep breath, his shoulders dropping an inch. “Okay. Thank you.”

As the elevator doors closed, I realized something.

For years I’d believed opportunity was a pristine, spotless thing — that it arrived on time, in a pressed suit, with perfect credentials and a smooth explanation for every scar.