Page 65 of Commander’s Mate

An hour later, the distribution line changed.

Not dramatically.

There was no cheering.

No inspirational speech.

A second table appeared.

Sealed meals on one side.

Open trays on the other.

A printed schedule on the wall.

Medical restrictions marked by symbol instead of diagnosis.

People still looked suspicious.

But they ate.

The supply clerk found me after the evening meal.

“Waste fell nine percent.”

I blinked.

“What?”

“Food waste.”

He showed me the figures.

Fewer untouched trays.

Fewer duplicate requests.

Fewer replacements.

“You tracked it.”

“We always track it.”

“Of course you do.”

He looked at my slate.

“You should add preferred portion size.”

Scarlet, behind me, made a strangled sound.

I ignored her.

“Why?”

“Some species eat larger meals less often. We are issuing by human-pattern intervals because the current refuge schedule was designed around your group.”

“That seems bad.”