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And then there’s me. In the corner. With my notes, my carefully printed itinerary, and the growing itch between my shoulder blades that says I’m about to do something I wasn’t technically hired to do.

Torack steps in last, clipboard in hand, expression somewhere between thundercloud and tax audit.

“All right,” he says, voice low and clipped. “Today’s goals—confirm the infrastructure timeline, finalize the food logistics,and figure out why the hell Cabin Seven still doesn’t have plumbing.”

“We’re waiting on the elemental inspector,” I say automatically.

He glances at me, nods. “Julie’s tracking that.”

I straighten slightly. A glow warming in my chest. Recognition. Not bad.

Groth raises his hand. “Also, we need to deal with the supply reroute. The mushrooms are gonna spoil in the sun.”

“Shouldn’t be serving them raw anyway,” Renault mutters.

“They’re a snackanda weapon,” Groth says proudly.

Dena sighs. “Can we not start the spore war again?”

Torack cuts through the chaos with one look. Everyone quiets. “Let’s move through the priority items. Julie, what’s first?”

All eyes turn to me.

I take a breath. Big. Bold.

“First up is the revised bunk scheduling matrix. I made adjustments to the sleeping arrangements to better accommodate the newer cabins and reduce the risk of interspecies tension.”

Renault sniffs. “Do you have any actual qualifications in conflict zoning?”

“Nope,” I say, flipping the laminated chart around for everyone to see. “Just common sense and an absurd number of late nights reading intercultural behavioral case studies. Here’s your visual breakdown. Color-coded. With legend.”

I pass out copies.

Groth blinks at the chart. “What’s this circle mean?”

“That’s your designated mushroom storage. Away from the bunks that can house centaurs. Because they hate fungal spores. You’re welcome.”

Dena raises a delicate hand. “And this red triangle?”

“Ah. That’s the no-fly zone. We don’t want the fairy wings getting scorched by the wood stove flue.”

Torack leans back in his chair slightly, watching me. I can feel it. That assessing, unreadable stare. He’s doing that thing again—trying not to smile but failing just a little.

I forge on.

“I also made adjustments to the food vendor rotation. Renault, I subbed out the dryad bakery for the kelp co-op since you flagged the nut contamination issue.”

He looks surprised. “I… appreciate that.”

“And I added signage for dietary codes—color-coded bracelets per camper so the kitchen doesn’t have to memorize two hundred preferences.”

Dena claps softly. “That’s brilliant.”

“Wait, so we’re keeping the mushroom kebabs?” Groth asks, hopefully.

“If they’re grilled and kept in a sealed container,” I say. “On odd days only. You’re not poisoning anyone on my watch.”

I expect Torack to cut in. Redirect. Commandeer the room again.