No answer.
I head toward the kitchen, footsteps echoing on the worn floorboards. The door swings open before I reach it, and a woman with bright purple hair and an apron covered in flour appears, spatula in hand like a weapon.
"We're not open yet."
"I'm Ivy. From the seed program. Rogan invited me to?—"
"Oh thank god." She lowers the spatula. "Come in before he burns something else."
She grabs my wrist and hauls me into the kitchen.
It's chaos.
Every surface is covered. Cutting boards stacked beside the sink, still wet. Three pots on the stove at various stages of use,one with something crusted to the bottom. A crate of vegetables near the walk-in, half sorted. Knives scattered across the prep station, some clean, some not.
My eye twitches.
Rogan stands at the center island, chopping onions with alarming speed, his topknot slightly askew and a streak of what might be tomato paste across his jaw. He glances up, grins.
"Ivy. You came."
"You said nine."
"Did I?" He checks the clock, which reads 8:03. "Huh. Lost track."
Maya snorts. "He's been here since five."
"Couldn't sleep." Rogan sweeps the onions into a bowl, wipes his hands on his apron. "Kept thinking about that critic. Two weeks isn't enough time."
"It's plenty of time if you plan." I set my satchel on the only clear corner of counter, pulling out my notebook. "Which is why I'm here. To help you not poison anyone."
"Poison?" Maya's eyebrows shoot up.
"Cross-contamination. Food safety. Ingredient integrity." I flip to the page where I've sketched the basics. "If you're using local produce, you need to know where it's grown, what's near it, how it's handled. One bad batch of greens and you're shut down."
Rogan's grin fades slightly. "I know how to run a kitchen."
"A city kitchen. This is different." I tap my notebook. "Farmers here don't always have commercial certifications. Some use composted manure. Do you know the difference between E. coli risk in spring lettuce versus fall root crops?"
"...no."
"Exactly." I glance around the kitchen again, cataloging. "Where do you store your cleaning supplies?"
"Under the sink."
"Next to food prep surfaces?"
"It's fine. I'm careful."
"Careful isn't a system." I walk to the sink, crouch, and pull open the cabinet. Bleach, degreaser, a bottle of dish soap, and—I hold up a bag of potatoes. "These shouldn't be here."
Maya winces. "I told him."
"They're fine." Rogan crosses his arms. "They're in a bag."
"They're in a cabinet with industrial cleaner. If any of this leaks, you've got contaminated produce." I stand, brushing off my knees. "You need separate storage. Chemicals in the back closet, dry goods on wire racks, produce in ventilated bins."
"Noted." His voice is tight, the charm dimmed.
