Page 9 of That’s My Orc, Tusk Off

Nix giving me static hair.

The filing system has its own mythology.

Traig’s sixty-five-page manual—no, make that sixty-seven-page manual, with appendices.

I paused, nibbling on the tip of my pen.

Traig had written sixty-five pages after Brovish hired me. He’d sat down and built a guide for someone he’d never met, because he wanted me to succeed here.

I added one more line:

Traig said I did well.

I closed the notebook before I could overthink why the last entry made my heart skip a beat.

CHAPTER TWO

TRAIG

Ialways used the time it took to walk to my cottage for going through my day. I would review any intakes, the medical supply levels from images I’d taken with my phone, and think about what I’d do the following day.

As I took the path through the woods leading to the row of cottages where my friends and I lived, a low, rhythmic flapping behind me broke my focus.

I turned to find Fred the grumbletoad floating above the gravel path, his tiny wings fluttering.

“Fred,” I said, my voice firm. “Enclosure four. Now.”

Fred grumbled, though it didn’t sound like a pleased grumble to me. He bobbed up and down, his tiny legs dangling.

I turned and continued toward my cottage. He followed, bumping into trees, flying just behind my left shoulder. When I reached my door, I turned again.

“You’re a social creature, but this is a private home,” I said. “You have your own place with the other creatures.”

Fred knocked into the doorframe and let out a higher-pitched grumble that did sound like satisfaction.

I sighed. It was late. Bringing him back would take more time than I’d like. “One night only,” I said, opening the door. “For behavioral observation purposes. I’ll document your sleep patterns and put them in triplicate. And give copies to Laina and Drogar in the morning.”

Fred flew inside and to my kitchen, floating toward the corner above my empty kitchen chair, grumbling.

I followed and after washing up, diced billabog root with careful, even cuts, feeding a few pieces to my “guest”. Usually, cooking soothed me. Tonight, I kept making uneven chunks, and I didn’t like it.

The knife hit the cutting board in steady intervals. Everything appeared in order. Except the cuts weren’t coming out right.

I kept seeing Willa. How she’d frowned at my filing system. The way she’d moaned with joy while she ate the food Drogar prepared. And her legs dangling from the break room chair.

I set the knife down with a clatter.

This was ridiculous. There was nothing unusual about her. She was an employee. Brovish had made the right decision in hiring her, and I’d eventually told him so. Her instincts with the phone intake had been sound. Her questions during orientation made sense. She’d read most of the manual and hadn’t complained about the filing system even though her face had suggested she wanted to.

I scraped the billabog into the pan and added oil.

She’d laughed when I said sixty-five pages as if I’d made a joke instead of stating a fact.

The oil heated. I added spices, chunks of rooledar meat, and stirred.

Her skin was warm light brown, and smooth. Her tight curls framed her face, and she’d tucked one side behind her ear twice during orientation. A nervous habit, maybe.

I hadn’t been able to drag my gaze away from her rich brown eyes behind her glasses that made her appear incredibly intelligent.