Most of the time, they didn't even look up. The responses were designed to make me go away.
"You don't need to worry about that."
"Too complicated. Even if I explained it, you wouldn't get it."
"Busy. Beat it."
But like a scavenger picking through scraps, I pieced the knowledge together, bit by bit.
The turning point came with Madison. She was rushing to submit a market research summary and had carelessly swapped the data sets of two key competitors. A fatal error.
I spotted it while organizing her materials. After a moment of hesitation, I spoke up.
"Madison, the data here—"
She snatched the document from my hand, face twisting. "Got it! God, you're nosy."
Later, that revised report passed inspection. At the weekly meeting, Willow publicly praised the thoroughness of the analysis.
Madison beamed, soaking up the applause without a single glance my way. She didn't mention my name. Not even a whisper.
From then on, the dynamic shifted.
"Helping out" stopped being an occasional favor and became my unofficial job description.