Then I reach for my phone. Start typing the email to Jamal Patterson.
This time I don't delete it.
3
STONE
Ispend the entire evening drawing.
Not poetry this time. Floor plans. Shelving configurations. The optimal traffic flow for a small bookstore-slash-cafe with limited square footage and one very large orc who keeps bumping into things.
My landlady, Mrs. Kowalski, peers over my shoulder while I work at the kitchen table. "You're making diagrams now? This is new."
"I need to be useful."
"You could be useful by not breaking things."
"That's literally what these are for." I tap the paper with my pencil. A little too hard. The tip snaps.
She hands me another one from the mug on the table. The mug saysWorld's Okayest Landlady.I bought it for her last month.
"You like this job," she observes. Not a question.
"I like all my jobs."
"No. You tolerate most of them. You like this one." She squints at my diagram. "Why did you draw a muffin?"
I look down. There's a small doodle in the corner. An orc-sized muffin with a tiny flag that saysSORRY.
"For the awning," I explain. "I'm going to leave her a note."
"Of course you are." Mrs. Kowalski pats my shoulder. The gesture is affectionate but also slightly pitying. "You're a good boy, Stone. Weird. But good."
I finish the diagrams around midnight. Start on the note. Rewrite it four times because my handwriting looks like a particularly violent chicken learned to hold a pen.
Final version reads:I'm very sorry about crushing your awning. I brought spices to make up for it. Please don't fire me before the octopus demonstration.
I add the muffin doodle. A small curb in the background with an X through it. Visual emphasis on my commitment to not repeating past mistakes.
Then I pack everything carefully. The diagrams. The note. The crate of spices I've been collecting since I knew about this placement. Cardamom from the last city. Smoked paprika I bartered for at a farmers market. Star anise. Whole cloves. Things that smell like comfort and possibility.
The crate is heavy.
I carry it to the shuttle stop at dawn.
Lacy'salready at the shop when I arrive. Hair twisted up in some kind of complicated knot thing. Pencil stuck through it. She's on a stepladder arranging the romance section.
The door chimes.
She looks over her shoulder. "You're early."
"I brought plans." I heft the crate. "And apologies. In spice form."
Her eyebrows rise. She climbs down from the ladder with that careful grace that seems fundamentally human. All compact efficiency. No wasted movement.
"Spice form."
"For the cafe." I lower the crate. Gently this time. Hyper-aware of every surface, every potential disaster. "I thought if we're doing cultural programming, we could incorporate flavors. Make signature drinks. Show people that orc cuisine isn't all fermented cabbage and bone marrow."
