Ivy gives Sienna a flicker of a smile, then says, “You are correct, Dr. Echols. Sea lions cannot read. But theycanbe disappointed, and I will not let this fundraiser tank on my watch. Moving on. We have two segments today, starting with the tour of the ship.”
She swipes to the next screen.
“We show donors exactly where their money will be used: repairs, equipment, functionality. Then we transition to the dinghy and film closeups of the colony in 4K.”
“Ha! Dinghy,” Blaze says, laughing, his loud Hawaiian shirt hanging open, his abs cutting down into his board shorts. “Dude, there’s no way that word’s real. That’s… no way.”
“It’s not fake,” Orson says. “It’s a nautical term.”
“Sounds like something you catch after a bad decision in Tijuana!”
“Blaze, the word dinghy has been around for centuries. It can mean a lifeboat, or a—”
Ivy shouts over them, “Six people per dinghy. Balanced entry, no sudden movements, and no standing once you’re in. We’ll shuttle to the rock line, and when we’re there, we do not disrupt the animals. We’re here to document their naturalcommunity. And that, everyone, is our grand finale.”
“No, Stopwatch. The order’s wrong.”
The words are out of my mouth before I can catch them.
Ivy’s stylus freezes. “Excuse me?”
“The underwater segment. I’m flagging it.” I keep my voice even. “The new gear hasn’t been tested at this depth. Between the rocks and the current, the signal’s going to get sketchy. If it drops, we lose the sea lions. Lead with the animals. We don’t gamble the main event.”
“Hmm. Interesting timing,” she says, her voice sweet enough to rot teeth. “Did this concern come to you before or after you pilfered my iPad?”
And there it is. The high-heeled boot to the chest I should have seen coming.
Every head in the galley pivots—not subtle, not obvious—just enough to drink it in.
And okay, fine. She’s right. Guilty as charged.
She told me to silence her alarm, gave me the code, and what was I supposed to do? Ignore the fact that her entire game plan was staring me in the face? I didn’t go looking for it, but yeah, I saw all of it.
Shot lists timed to the second. Timestamps synced to tide charts. A column labeledBark Density vs. Viewer Retention,like that’s a normal thing to track.
Andcontingency plans for everything: choppy water, a panicked passenger, a sea lion breaching the safety perimeter, even if the freakin’ sun was too bright at noon.
Who the hell plans for all this?
Ivy, that’s who.
She reverse-engineered this whole campaign. The goal was three million dollars, so she broke it down into illustrated benchmarks. Live adjustments, replays, and memes were ready to drop the second donations slowed down.
Not a playbook. A damn military operation.
I thought I understood her job. I didn’t.
I was floored, with the kind of awe that knocks the wind right out of you. I’d sat on that bed, iPad in hand, trying to find the words to tell her she’s the most fucking brilliant person I’ve ever met.
Then the bathroom door opened, she saw the screen, and the moment went up in smoke. I couldn’t get a single word out.
“Cole,” Ivy’s voice pulls me back to the present. “I’m not rearranging the schedule based on a hunch about equipment.”
“It’s not guesswork. Signal degradation in—”
“I’ve run the numbers.” She holds the tablet up to the group. “Viewer retention data across every comparable wildlife stream from the last eighteen months shows audiences love animal interactions. Views spike! The sea lion revealis the finale because it’s thepayoff.You build the anticipation, you don’t play it upfront and hope people stick around for underwater B-roll. It’s called strategy.”
“If the stream drops during the underwater segment—”
