Page 47 of A Perfect Disaster

Silence falls suddenly. And not just over the line. All around me, too. Several passengers in the front row turn to look at me, including two kids whose eyes are wide as saucers, as if they’ve just discovered that the ship’s entertainment coordinators can swear like sailors, too.

I smile immediately, transforming my face into pure sweetness.

“Everything’s fine, we’re still enjoying the trip in a… dynamic way,” I assure Helen.

Nico brings a hand to his face, running his fingers over it in embarrassment, while Helen, on the other side, takes a deep breath.

“Did you say that in front of the passengers?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Everyone here is having an intense and memorable cultural experience,” I whisper, already stepping into the station lobby. “Helen, I’m moving twenty-four people, including the elderly, to a platform in record time. If a swear word slips out, you put it in the incident report, deduct my stopover bonus, and we’re even.”

“I don’t want to dock anything from you, Maika,” her voice softens a notch, losing its earlier stiffness. “I just want you to make it to the platform. Safe and sound.”

For a second, as I dodge the barriers at the entrance, I sense a small crack. A real, human concern. Concern… for me.

And my heart, which is a total traitor, decides to soften in the midst of the chaos.

“We’ll make it,” I assure her.

“You’d better,” she replies.

I smile despite the sweat and the rush.

“That sounded almost affectionate.”

“Don’t get used to it, coordinator.”

We reach the Roma San Pietro concourse out of breath and with our dignity in tatters. The station’s tiles seem like the antechamber to paradise. Passengers file in behind me, panting and casting anxious glances at the departure screens.

“Nico, quick headcount. Now.”

He starts pointing at heads with a trembling finger.

“One, two, three…”

I run toward the ticket machines, trying to figure out the interface. Regional Veloce to Civitavecchia. Departure in four minutes. Travel time: forty-one minutes. Blessed Italian railway.

“Helen, we’ve got a Regional Veloce on the platform,” I report over the speakerphone. “It takes forty minutes. If we catch it, we’ve won the day.”

“Get the tickets now. Don’t let it get away.”

“I’m trying, boss of the universe, but the machine is super slow.”

“Use the corporate credit card. If it won’t read the group code, buy individual tickets—whatever’s faster. The important thing is that you’re on that train.”

“Got it.”

I pull the emergency card out of my pocket with sweaty fingers. I enter the details on the touchscreen, and the machine takes an eternity that probably lasts only seven seconds. Just as I’m about to punch the glass, the slot starts spitting out an endless stream of tickets. And the next second, I almost plant a kiss on the machine.

“I’ve got them,” I announce, catching them on the fly. I look at Nico. “Are they all here?”

Nico gives a thumbs-up, the color returning to his cheeks.

“Full group, Maika.”

“Good,” Helen chimes in from the other side. “The port agency’s bus has already been notified. It’ll be waiting for you at the exit of the Civitavecchia station with the engine running. The officer on duty already knows you’re running tight, so they’ll keep the Alfa gangway open just for your group. Don’t let anyone get distracted when getting off the train, Maika.”

My patience, which had already been running on fumes since the dome crisis, decides to evaporate completely. I turn my back on the group so no passengers can hear me and blurt out: