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His gaze shifts toward me.

"It is a business."

"A nonprofit."

"Nonprofit doesn't mean you get to be bad at business."

I stop walking. He takes another step before noticing. Then turns.

"That," I say.

"What?"

"That may be the smartest thing you've said since I met you."

His eyebrows rise.

"May be?"

"I haven't known you very long."

"Generous."

I smile.

"I'm serious."

Something in my tone must tell him I am, because the teasing leaves his face.

"You have employees. Housing. Equipment. Insurance. Compliance. Agriculture. Fundraising. Training programs. Community partnerships." I glance around. "If you don't run this like a business, people lose more than jobs."

His eyes stay on mine.

"Exactly."

One word. But this one feels different. Recognition. I know that feeling. When someone understands the thing you've built instead of merely admiring it.

"The restaurant isn't the same," I say. "Obviously. But people think owning one is cooking food and talking to customers."

"What is it really?"

"Payroll. Vendors. Insurance. Permits. Staffing. Equipment that breaks at the worst possible time. Food costs. Rent. Reservations. Reviews. And then, if you're lucky, you get to cook."

His mouth curves.

"Sounds terrible."

"I love it."

"You talk differently when you mention it."

I stare at him. That's an awfully observant thing for a man who pretends not to say much. Before I can decide what to do with that, he starts walking again. I follow.

"Do you need volunteers now?"

"Always."

"Doing what?"