“During events?” I ask.
“Dependent children are checked in at least thirty minutes before contestant call times,” Kavi says. “You’ll sign him in and out personally unless emergency conditions dictate otherwise. No media access to this wing. No sponsor drop-ins. No contestant visitors outside approved hours.”
“No media at all?”
“None.” He studies my face. “That was one of the first clauses we locked after season nine. Learn from your disasters, you know?”
I almost ask what happened in season nine, then decide ignorance may be a mercy.
“When I’m in transit between events?” I ask.
“He stays here or in designated family transfer with childcare staff.”
“And if he’s sick?”
“On-site peds first. If something exceeds us, station med transfer.” Kavi pauses. “Ms. Robertson, you can keep asking. I don’t mind.”
“I know.” I fold my arms. “I just need to know he’ll be safe while I’m out there doing whatever fresh horror they’ve designed.”
His expression gentles. “You are not the first parent they’ve recruited. You won’t be the last. We take that seriously.”
I believe him.
Not because his words are magical. Because he smells faintly like antiseptic and coffee, because his shoes are scuffed, because he has not once given me a brochure sentence. Because tired competent people are the only authority figures I consistently trust.
“Thank you,” I say, and mean it.
He inclines his head. “That’s what I’m here for.”
Jesse has discovered a bin of soft weighted blocks and is trying to carry four at once.
“No, sweetheart,” I say automatically. “One at a time.”
He frowns at me. “Why?”
“Because if you drop all four on your foot, I’ll have to listen to you be betrayed.”
Kavi snorts.
We finish the tour with practical details—meal schedules, emergency channels, allergies, nap preferences, Jesse’s tendency to overheat when upset, the yellow shuttle toy that has become emotionally non-negotiable. By the time we leave, Ihave a signed childcare confirmation on my comm, three backup contact methods, and enough cautious relief in my chest to make room for all the other worries again.
Which is unfortunate, because there are so many of them.
Residential Block C is quieter than the central compound, at least for now. My assigned quarters are on the second level, family corridor, behind a locked glass door and a biometric panel that reads my wristband before admitting us. Good. More barriers between Jesse and the wandering circus.
The room itself is better than anything Brautigaum ever would have paid for in ordinary life.
Not extravagant, not by the standards of the liner, but clean and well-designed: a main bed alcove for me, a child sleeping nook with the reinforced crib already made up, a compact washroom, a sitting area with a real table and two sturdy chairs, storage built into the walls, and a wide window looking out over one section of the compound.
I set our bags down and do a slow circuit, opening cabinets, testing latches, checking corners. Jesse toddles after me narrating nonsense to himself.
“Bed. Chair. Window. Mama. Chair.”
I put my hand on the chair back and push. Solid.
“Good chair,” I tell him.
He pats it approvingly. “Not rude.”
