I shift Jesse higher on my hip. His weight is familiar, anchoring. “Brautigaum happened.”
Fenn grimaces. “That man always looks like he moisturizes with other people’s stress.”
“That is, bizarrely, accurate.”
“What’d he say?”
I laugh once, the sound thin even to me. “You’re going to think I’m joking.”
“I don’t.”
“He wants me to represent the company in the Galactic Extreme Challenge.”
Silence.
Even Jesse goes still, because my voice changed and he heard it.
Then Fenn says, “The television death carnival?”
“Apparently the phrase they prefer is ‘high-impact interstellar competition experience.’”
“The television death carnival,” he repeats.
“Yes.”
He stares at me. I stare back. Jesse starts playing with my earring.
Finally Fenn drags a hand over his mouth. “And?”
“And I signed.”
He lets out a low whistle. “You really are desperate.”
“Thank you, Fenn. I was worried the nuance might be lost.”
He stands up slowly. “What do you get?”
“Contestant housing. Childcare on-site at the compound. A stipend. Some performance-based bonuses. A promotion review if I survive.”
He folds his arms. “If.”
“Mm.”
“And you trust them?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I lower Jesse and start tidying blocks because if I don’t move, I’ll sit down, and if I sit down, I may never get back up. My fingers shake only a little. “I don’t have to trust them. I just have to get everything in writing, keep my eyes open, and last longer than people who make poorer choices under pressure.”
“That does sound like one of your skill sets.”
“It had better be.”
Fenn watches me for a beat, then says quietly, “How bad is it?”
My laugh catches on the way out. “Bad enough that this made sense.”
