I look between them. "Everything?"
"Everything," Finn confirms, grinning. "Who can change oil faster. Who fixed the Morrison truck with fewer curse words. Who correctly predicted it would rain last Tuesday. Who can throw a wrench into that bucket from ten feet. Literally everything."
"And you keep score?"
"Have been for six years."
"Six years?"
"Commitment," Finn says proudly. "Dedication to the craft of competition."
I study the tally marks, trying to count. "Finn, it looks like you're winning."
"I am winning. By a significant margin. I'm basically a champion."
"You cheat," Holt says, still not looking up. His voice is flat, matter-of-fact.
"Can't prove it," Finn shoots back immediately.
"You changed scores last week."
"That was correcting an error. Very different thing."
"That's called cheating."
"That's called justice."
I'm grinning now, can't help it. "You two are insane."
"Thank you," Finn says. "We try."
I walk over to the desk and immediately understand why he's praying for me.
It's a disaster. An absolute catastrophe. Invoices mixed with receipts from 2019, post-its with Finn's jokes scrawled on them ("Why did the carburetor break up with the alternator? No spark!"), pens that don't work scattered everywhere, a coffee mug with something growing in it that might be sentient, and—I'm not making this up—a spark plug sitting in the pencil holder like it belongs there.
"Okay," I say out loud, because talking to myself is better than screaming. "This is fine. Totally fine. Invoices go here. Receipts—do we need these from 2019? Probably not. Why is there a spark plug in the pencil holder? Who does this? Who looks at a spark plug and thinks 'this belongs with the writing implements'? This is chaos. This is—"
I spot what I need—a binder labeled "PAID 2024" sitting on the top shelf of the filing system. Of course it's on the top shelf. Everything useful is always on the top shelf, like the universe is personally conspiring against anyone under five-foot-six. I reach up, stretching on my toes, fingers brushing the spine but not quite grasping it. Come on. Just a little higher. I push up further, arm extended as far as it'll go, and—nope. Still can't reach it.
"Need help there, short stack?"
I drop back to flat feet and glare at Finn, who's appeared out of nowhere wearing the biggest shit-eating grin I've ever seen. "I'm not short. I'm five-three, which is a perfectly normal height. You're just freakishly tall."
"Uh-huh." He reaches up without even stretching—doesn't even have to try, the bastard—and pulls the binder down like it's nothing. Hands it to me with a flourish. "What was that?"
I snatch it from him. "I said thank you, you giant asshole."
"You're welcome, Gremlin." He's still grinning. "Anytime you need help reaching the big-people shelves, just holler."
"I will end you."
"Looking forward to it." He walks away whistling and I want to throw the binder at his head but I need it so that's not an option.
Twenty minutes later I need a different binder—"RECEIPTS 2023"—and guess where it is? Top shelf. Again. Which is suspicious because I could've sworn both Finn and Holt were in this area recently, and I'm starting to develop a theory about why everything I need keeps ending up just out of reach.
I drag the office chair over, climb up on it like a feral gremlin—which, okay, maybe Finn has a point—and grab the binder. As I'm climbing down I call out, "Which one of you keeps putting things on the top shelf?"
Silence from Finn's direction. Too much silence. Suspicious silence.
