Page 73 of That’s My Orc, Tusk Off

My mug sat on the reception desk, steam still rising in a thin curl. I touched the ceramic. Warm.

Two creams. No sweetener.

He’d remembered. Again. Many days in a row now, each cup appearing before I arrived, still warm enough to tell me he’d timed it. Timed me.

Fred floated near the ceiling, his grumbling pitched higher than usual. Amanda perched on his back, her crown orange with sharp bursts of light.

I set my bag down and picked up the mug.

The building felt different. Tighter somehow, like the walls were holding their breath.

Footsteps echoed from the back hallway. Traig appeared, his tablet against his chest, his hair tied back at his nape.

His gaze flicked from me to the mug in my hands.

Fred’s grumbling grew louder. Amanda’s crown went full yellow.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Morning.” He didn’t slow or stop. Just kept walking past the desk toward his office.

The door closed behind him.

Fred bumped into the wall. Amanda hissed.

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “I know.”

By mid-morning I’d processed six calls, updated three adoption files, and walked past the enclosures to get a breath of fresh air.

Inside, I went to the supply room, finding Traig inside.

The door stood open. Traig was on his knees in front of the medical supplies shelf, the label maker in one hand, a roll of tape in the other.

Labels covered everything. The individual bins. The contents of the bins.

Medical Supplies - Bandages - Gauze - Sterile - 4x4 – use first

He reprinted the label.

Medical Supplies - Bandages - Gauze - Sterile - 4x4 – make sure you use first

He’d created categories within categories within categories, each more specific than the last.

I didn’t say anything. Just stood in the doorway and watched.

His hands moved carefully. Print label. Peel backing. Apply. Smooth. Repeat.

He’d been doing this for the past week. Maybe the past month. The evidence was in the perfectly aligned rows and the growing pile of discarded labels where the wording hadn’t been precise enough.

He reached for another bin and froze. His shoulders went rigid.

“How long have you been standing there?” he asked.

“Long enough.”

He set the label maker down, lining it up parallel to the side of the shelf with the same care people reserved for defusing bombs. “I’m organizing.”

“Traig.”