transfer of heavy materials, as he’d promised he’d do, he’d gotten an eyeful of reality. From the SUV, the bridge looked like a bridge. A dangerous bridge but, you know, a bridge. On foot, with the sides and underbelly at eye level, the bridge looked less like a bridge and more like a false-floor death trap. The locals didn’t even dare cross the thing on horseback, which was one of the reasons they were so isolated and helpless.
They were also smarter than him. He could not believe he’d strutted across in an SUV and pulling a trailer. He couldn’t even see how it was physically possible. Even if the weathered slats could somehow support the weight, the missing sections should’ve swallowed a tire, or sent him careening off the side.
He’d placed all the right phone calls, but the government was months away from sending help. He finally found a private company capable of replacing the bridge, but they were booked solid and couldn’t break ground until after the rainy season, anyway.
Which meant triple the work and quadruple the frustration, because even triple the work wasn’t good enough. He’d paid out the nose to find a team to run telephone and electricity lines, and there were the workers on the other side of river, staring in disbelief at the joke of a bridge.
Obviously their trucks couldn’t cross. They weighed ten times as much as the little trailer. The men could walk over, sure, but then what? Haul miles of cabling in thick coils on their backs? The company he’d hired to redo the village’s poor plumbing had managed, but they hadn’t needed to bring utility poles across the bridge. Or basket cranes. Construction equipment was much heavier than the SUV, even with a heavy trailer.
All of which meant that for three solid days, Jack awoke long before dawn, scouted out territory, dreamed up plans, organized men, tromped through mud, shimmied up trees, scaled roofs, schlepped heavy equipment, mixed concrete, inhaled fumes, barked orders, watched out for children, rationed food, bandaged wounds, kept up morale, directed traffic, cut wires, hammered nails, bent pipes, and tumbled into his tent for a scant five hours’ sleep before getting up and doing it all over.
He hadn’t had a spare moment to even talk to Sarah, much less contemplate kissing her again. Not that she left him alone to this madness. She was everywhere he was, doing everything he was, always within earshot if he needed an extra hand. She was amazing, the villagers were amazing, the unexpected help from the neighboring towns was amazing, but what they really needed was. . . more.
The day after the hearing, he’d liquidated his assets. He earmarked one third of the money for doing this exact sort of thing for the rest of his life. He donated another third to all the worthy causes he’d ignored during his years as a power-hungry mogul. He used the final third to start the nonprofit Morgan Foundation, with the goal of bringing relief to third-world countries and people in need throughout the globe.
Despite the full subsidization and grant money to anyone willing to donate a year of their time, the Morgan Foundation was unarguably Jack’s least successful venture. The few volunteers he did have were stretched to their limits, and there were none to spare for a tiny village in the mountains of Bolivia, the week before Christmas.
Nonetheless, the faces around him were hopeful—possibly for the first time in their lives—and Jack was determined not to let them down. The villagers, like the majority of Bolivians, were Roman Catholics. They believed in goodness. And they deserved a Christmas miracle.
He lent his bruised shoulders to help haul the thick logs for the utility poles across the bridge and into town, and went back three more times until all the cabling had been brought across as well.
The men were busy holding poles and climbing ladders and running cable when Jack finally decided he could use a thirty-second break. He
They were also smarter than him. He could not believe he’d strutted across in an SUV and pulling a trailer. He couldn’t even see how it was physically possible. Even if the weathered slats could somehow support the weight, the missing sections should’ve swallowed a tire, or sent him careening off the side.
He’d placed all the right phone calls, but the government was months away from sending help. He finally found a private company capable of replacing the bridge, but they were booked solid and couldn’t break ground until after the rainy season, anyway.
Which meant triple the work and quadruple the frustration, because even triple the work wasn’t good enough. He’d paid out the nose to find a team to run telephone and electricity lines, and there were the workers on the other side of river, staring in disbelief at the joke of a bridge.
Obviously their trucks couldn’t cross. They weighed ten times as much as the little trailer. The men could walk over, sure, but then what? Haul miles of cabling in thick coils on their backs? The company he’d hired to redo the village’s poor plumbing had managed, but they hadn’t needed to bring utility poles across the bridge. Or basket cranes. Construction equipment was much heavier than the SUV, even with a heavy trailer.
All of which meant that for three solid days, Jack awoke long before dawn, scouted out territory, dreamed up plans, organized men, tromped through mud, shimmied up trees, scaled roofs, schlepped heavy equipment, mixed concrete, inhaled fumes, barked orders, watched out for children, rationed food, bandaged wounds, kept up morale, directed traffic, cut wires, hammered nails, bent pipes, and tumbled into his tent for a scant five hours’ sleep before getting up and doing it all over.
He hadn’t had a spare moment to even talk to Sarah, much less contemplate kissing her again. Not that she left him alone to this madness. She was everywhere he was, doing everything he was, always within earshot if he needed an extra hand. She was amazing, the villagers were amazing, the unexpected help from the neighboring towns was amazing, but what they really needed was. . . more.
The day after the hearing, he’d liquidated his assets. He earmarked one third of the money for doing this exact sort of thing for the rest of his life. He donated another third to all the worthy causes he’d ignored during his years as a power-hungry mogul. He used the final third to start the nonprofit Morgan Foundation, with the goal of bringing relief to third-world countries and people in need throughout the globe.
Despite the full subsidization and grant money to anyone willing to donate a year of their time, the Morgan Foundation was unarguably Jack’s least successful venture. The few volunteers he did have were stretched to their limits, and there were none to spare for a tiny village in the mountains of Bolivia, the week before Christmas.
Nonetheless, the faces around him were hopeful—possibly for the first time in their lives—and Jack was determined not to let them down. The villagers, like the majority of Bolivians, were Roman Catholics. They believed in goodness. And they deserved a Christmas miracle.
He lent his bruised shoulders to help haul the thick logs for the utility poles across the bridge and into town, and went back three more times until all the cabling had been brought across as well.
The men were busy holding poles and climbing ladders and running cable when Jack finally decided he could use a thirty-second break. He
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