Flint’s hand closed around my elbow.
Fast. Steady. Gone almost before I could look up.
“Ground dips there,” he said.
“I saw it.”
“You stepped like you didn’t.”
“I was testing your reflexes.”
“They work.”
No kidding.
He let go and carried the cooler toward the cook stations.
I followed with the trays pressed to my chest and my pride only slightly singed.
The correct permit clearing sat open and bright under the sun, with bare dirt around the fire rings and a wide buffer between the cooking zone and the dry grass. The production van was angled near the access road. Ed had two cameras set, one on a tripod and one balanced on his shoulder. Caprice stood beside him in black utility shorts, a sleeveless white button-up, gold hoops, headset, phone, and the expression of a woman trying to turn chaos into a schedule.
She pointed at Flint without looking up. “Your bacon smoke is showing up well on camera.”
“It’s smoke,” he said.
“It’s useful smoke. Say less about breakfast meat and more about process when Ed comes close.”
Ed grunted. “Process doesn’t smell this good.”
“You’re behind the camera for a reason,” Caprice said.
I set my trays at my station. “Please tell me Round Two has a written judging brief and not just Caprice making the face she makes when she smells money.”
Caprice lowered her phone. “Round Two is campfire main. Hot dogs, broad interpretation. Dish must be handheld, recognizable as a hot dog, and practical enough that a normal person would eat it outdoors without needing tweezers or emotional support.”
I looked at Flint. “So he’s already in trouble.”
Flint set my cooler where Joelle pointed and straightened. “My food doesn’t need tweezers.”
“Your food thinks tweezers are witchcraft.”
“My food knows what it is.”
“Good for your food. Identity is important.”
Caprice snapped her fingers. “Save the bickering for the cameras, or stop doing it. Ed, are we rolling?”
Ed lifted his camera. “I never stopped.”
“Ed,” I said.
He shrugged. “Evidence is useful.”
Joelle handed me my white apron. “Please tie this before you start threatening people with condiments.”
I slid the apron over my head. Across the clearing, Flint went back to his station, where strips of bacon waited beside long metal skewers, a cast-iron skillet, a pot of beans, and a cooler marked FLINT / DOGS in blocky black letters.
My station looked like a tiny county fair got a culinary-school scholarship. Bison dogs. Split buns brushed with butter. Smoked gouda. Apple-cabbage slaw. Mustard drizzle. A little charred onion tucked away for depth because I was magnanimous and also right.
