At twenty-two, the Meridian Communications intern could slip down corridors without drawing a single look. She tabbed binders by color, unjammed printers, and ate desk yogurt with headphones in—low enough to catch her name, steady enough to quiet hope. Chicago glittered beyond the glass; inside, everyone felt too busy, too big, too loud.
No one there knew she was fluent in American Sign Language. She’d learned for Danny, her eight-year-old brother—falling asleep over alphabet charts with aching fingers. In a place where success thundered across conference tables, a silent tongue was its own hidden world. Vital at home. Invisible at work.
Until a Tuesday morning split that world open.
The lobby hummed—couriers, hard heels, espresso breath, the scent of urgency. Catherine was collating pitch books when an older man in a navy suit stepped up to the marble desk. He smiled, tried to speak, then lifted his hands and began to sign
