Page 16 of That’s My Orc, Tusk Off

Not because Traig had noticed I was charmed by Fred yesterday and decided to do something about it.

Definitely not that.

“Thank you,” I said. “Does he need a litter box and…food and water?” I peered around as if they might magically materialize in the foyer.

“He’ll go outside for both. He has a pen out back. I’ll leave the gate open. Then he can come and go as he pleases.”

“Perfect.”

He nodded and picked up his tablet, carrying it and his tote bag around to my side of the counter. “We should begin.”

We spent the next hour on intake processing, which turned out to be as thorough as the manual suggested. Traig walked me through the digital forms field by field, explaining the logic that determined which follow-up questions appeared based on prior answers.

It was genuinely impressive.

It was also completely incomprehensible to anyone who hadn’t designed it.

“This makes sense,” I said carefully, “if you already know what you’re looking for.”

He frowned. “The categories are clearly labeled.”

“They are. But the subcategories reference other subcategories, and some of the drop-down menus have options that trigger entirely different forms.”

“That’s the way it should be.”

“Right. But what if someone doesn’t know which option triggers which form?”

He blinked. “They would read the descriptions.”

“And if the descriptions assume knowledge they don’t have yet?”

His frown deepened. He tapped something on his tablet, pulled up one of the forms, and studied it in silence.

Fred grumbled from my lap.

“You’re suggesting the system is not intuitive,” Traig finally said.

“I’m suggesting it’s intuitive for you.”

I held his gaze.

“We’ll revisit this,” he said. “After the tour.”

Which wasn’t a “you don’t know what you’re talking about” and more than I’d expected.

He stood, gesturing toward the back door. “The enclosures are this way.”

I set Fred on the desk. He snapped out his wings and floated upward, bobbing gently toward the ceiling like the world’s grumpiest balloon. He impacted with a beam and grumbled even louder.

I frowned, hoping he was okay.

“He does that,” Traig said.

“I see.”

Fred bumped into the ceiling, grumbled some more, adjusted his trajectory, and floated toward the wall. He hit it with a soft thud, grumbled again, and ricocheted toward the window.

“Should we…?” I gestured at my airborne friend.