“Caprice always wants color.”
“She said she wants color and tension.”
“I’m not responsible for tension.”
Joelle looked past me.
I followed her gaze.
Flint stood at his station in a clean slate-blue work shirt with the sleeves pushed up, dark canvas pants, scuffed boots, and work gloves tucked into one back pocket. His hair was still a little damp from the cabin sink, and the morning sun caught the blond in it. He had a bucket in one hand and a shovel in the other.
He looked up.
I forgot the word color.
Joelle made a neat checkmark on her clipboard. “You’re at least partially responsible.”
“I’m choosing not to hear that.”
“Your ears are red.”
“My ears are enthusiastic.”
“They’re not alone.”
I turned on her. “Do not start, Joelle Bellamy.”
She gave me the call sheet with saintly calm. “We need station readiness in ten minutes.”
I got to work.
Final-round prep without knowing the round was like packing for a vacation where the destination could be beach, blizzard, or a murder dinner with gluten restrictions. I had to think in systems, not dishes.
Neutral dry mix went into one clear-labeled bin: flour, cornmeal, baking powder, sugar, salt, and spice options separated in small jars. Protein options stayed cold: bacon, sausage, eggs, and a small container of leftover bison I could use only if the prompt made sense. Fruit stayed chilled: peaches, apples, huckleberries, and berries I could turn sweet, smoky, tart, or bright. Butter, cream, honey, maple, mustard, herbs, chiles, cheese, and vinegar lined up in categories.
The jars were cute and practical, which I counted as personal growth.
I set cast iron within reach but away from the table edge. I moved the squeeze bottles back from the heat path. I checked the wind by watching the grass instead of pretending the sky would send me a memo. I put water at the front left, sand at the back right, and the fire blanket on the open side of the table where no one would have to dig under towels to reach it.
Then I looked at Ed’s cable.
It ran behind my station, close enough that someone stepping backward with a hot pan could snag it.
I pointed. “That snake is moving.”
Ed glanced up. “The snake is there because Caprice wants a side angle.”
“The snake is going to kill a camera operator, a chef, or a skillet.”
“The snake resents that.”
“Move it.”
He squinted at me. “You sound like Sparks.”
“I sound like me after two days of learning the mountain is actively waiting for paperwork errors.”
Flint’s voice came from behind me. “Cable needs to move.”
