He doesn’t answer right away. He doesn’t need to. He looks at the broken chair against the wall, the patched cabinet latch, Jesse’s reinforced booster seat, the apartment that tells the whole story even when I don’t.
“Right,” he says at last. “What do you need?”
The question nearly undoes me more than sympathy would have.
“Honestly?”
“Usually a mistake, but go on.”
“I need you not to tell me this is insane, because I know it’s insane. I need help figuring out what to pack. And I need to confirm every single childcare detail before I let strangers in matching uniforms anywhere near my son.”
Fenn grunts. “That I can do.”
Jesse tugs my shirt. “What challenge?”
I look down at him.
How do you explain any of this to a child who still thinks pockets are a form of magic?
“It’s a game,” I say carefully. “Mama has to go away for a little while and do some hard things for work.”
He frowns. “I come?”
“Yes. You come with me.”
His face brightens instantly. “Adventure?”
The word lands right in the center of me, soft and cruel.
“Something like that,” I say.
He throws both arms up. “Adventure!”
Fenn mutters, “That’s one word for it.”
We feed Jesse dinner while I pull up the contract on my comm and start combing through the clauses like a woman trying to detect poison by punctuation. Contestant transport departs in less than thirty hours. Child dependents, where approved, are housed in a separate family wing at the contestant compound during ground phases and in supervised accommodations during transit. Twenty-four-hour pediatric staff. Security-controlled access. Nutritional options. Hybrid-species accommodation requests available upon arrival.
Available upon arrival.
I narrow my eyes.
“Absolutely not,” I mutter.
Fenn looks up from slicing fruit. “What?”
“They left the hybrid accommodations open-ended. No. No, no. We are not arriving with a half-Vakutan toddler and trusting improvisation.”
I tap the customer support channel hard enough to feel virtuous.
After three redirects and a hold loop featuring instrumental music that sounds like a hostage negotiation set to flutes, a live coordinator appears in holo over my screen. She has perfect makeup, a soothing smile, and the polished voice of a woman paid to describe disasters as premium experiences.
“Thank you for contacting Galactic Extreme contestant services. My name is Verali. How may I support your journey today?”
“My dependent accommodation file,” I say. “Contestant Tilda Robertson, sponsorship through Brautigaum Plastics. I need confirmed hybrid childcare capabilities before departure.”
Her smile never moves. “Of course. One moment while I access your profile.”
Jesse is humming to his spoon again. Fenn mouthsVerali?and I nearly smile.
