Page 9 of A Perfect Disaster

Silence settles over the table, and eyes dart from her to me as if they were watching a tennis match.

Captain Duarte folds his hands.

“Let’s get back to the point.”

I nod.

“My proposal stands.”

Maika rests her forearms on the table.

“And mine is to add two mobile ushers. One near the bar and another by the side entrance. No vests, no cop-like appearance. Just guiding people in a natural way. People obey better when they don’t feel like they’re being corrected all the time.”

If her idea were absurd, it would be easy to shoot it down. But Maika has never had absurd ideas. Chaotic, unpredictable, and dangerously charming, yes. Absurd, no.

“I need guarantees that this will work,” I demand.

“You’ll have names, positions, and schedules.”

“And radio communication.”

“Not all my entertainers carry radios during events,” she clarifies.

“At events supervised by the security team, yes.”

“Sure…”

Her answer hangs in the air as I get one of her smiles. I want to throw the laser pointer at her, but I’m a professional. A total professional. Besides, she’d probably catch it midair and give me some irritating comeback.

We move on to the next floor plan.

Little by little, the temperature in the room seems to rise. Or maybe it’s just me. Maika looks directly at me, and for a moment, everything closes in: the table, the plans, the voices, even the air. Her eyes are dark, alive. And suddenly, I remember another room, another plan, another argument. Her leaning over the table, laughing because I had called her proposal “statistically irresponsible.”

“I love it when you insult me with metaphors,” she said to me then.

I almost smiled. Almost.

I return to the present before my memory commits a greater indiscretion.

“Security isn’t based on good intentions,” I state after reviewing another of the protocols.

This is the closest thing to a pitched battle.

“Nor do people function as mere lines on a map,” she replies.

“Lines on a map save lives when everyone loses their cool.”

“And someone with field experience can prevent them from losing it in the first place.”

We look at each other. I don’t know who breathes first. I just know that the room is too quiet.

Captain Duarte clears his throat.

“Ladies…” he says, asking us to look at him.

We both turn toward him.

“It’s clear that you have different approaches,” he continues. “And this ship needs both. Helen, your responsibility is to ensure that nothing strays beyond safety margins. Maika, yours is to ensure that those margins apply to real passengers, not ideal ones.”