“Temporarily.”
The paper was high-grade, the kind that didn’t bleed when the humidity spiked. The leather cover was warm from the sun. A ribbon marker hung from the spine. The first page held giraffe notes.
Technically.
In practice, she’d conducted a performance review on wildlife.
Only Juliette would look at a giraffe and see a leadership failure.
She’d written something about bad engineering, too much neck, questionable balance, and a species that had clearly coasted for generations on eyelashes and altitude. Then she’d assigned the nearest two animals corporate roles. One upper management. One unpaid intern with panic in his eyes.
Neither appeared aware their careers were in jeopardy.
It should have been absurd.
It was absurd.
I still remembered it.
I snorted and turned the page. A sketch of a dung beetle. Damn good sketch, actually.
Of course she audited the insects.
Logistics: Superior.
Waste management: 100% recycling rate.
Strategy: Keep pushing.
Juliette watched me with the kind of cool expression lawyers wore before they asked the question they already knew the answer to.
“You laughed.”
“Incorrect.”
“You snorted.”
“Dust.”
“You’ve got lines at the corners of your eyes.”
“That’s sun damage.”
“Mm.”
I handed the notebook back. My grip tightened once around the wheel before I shifted into gear.
We moved down into the basin.
Impala lifted from the buffel grass ahead in clean arcs, white tails flashing. A kori bustard stalked near a termite mound,seemingly offended by our existence. Juliette tracked both without writing anything down.
That was new.
“You’ve gone quiet.”
“I’m conserving my questions.”
“For later?”
