Page 47 of One Adult, Please

"The gauge was reading correctly."

"That's not fun. That's maintenance."

"For some of us, those are the same thing."

He's sitting on the bench with his wrench on his knee and his hands folded and his face doing the almost-smile and I realize he's messing with me. Joel is being fun and he meant it to be funny and it's funny.

"Did you just make a joke?"

"It was an observation."

"It was a joke. Beck, did Joel just make a joke?"

"I believe he did."

"This is historic. This goes on the plan." I write:

Document all Joel jokes. (For the record.)

"Please don't," Joel says.

"It's already in crayon. Crayon is permanent. Crayon is the constitution of the new world."

I keep writing. The list grows. It sprawls across the bottom of the brochure in multicolor crayon, part strategy, part manifesto, part grocery list of a woman who is running a theme park fortress with a wrench guy, an axe guy, and a friendship paddle.

Find phone charger. Call Mom. (URGENT.)

Inventory all food rooms in all zones.

Build something cool. (Beck's discretion. Supervised.)

"Supervised by who?" Beck asks.

"By me. The Glue supervises."

"You fell into a deep fryer today."

"I fell near a deep fryer. Near is different than into. The distinction is medically significant."

Haunted house stays closed at night. (Non-negotiable.)

Teach the others the where picture system.

Find more crayons.

I put the crayon down. Fifteen items. Some practical. Some absurd. I look at my two people. My team, which I didn't recruit so much as stumble into, the way I stumble into everything: accidentally, completely, and with both knees bleeding.

"Tomorrow we scout the garden part," I say. "We find the animal doctor. If they're alive, we bring them in. If they're not..." I pause. I don't finish the sentence. The sentence finishes itself in the shared understanding that "if they're not" is a sentence that keeps ending differently every time we encounter it and never gets easier.

"Tomorrow," Beck says.

"Tonight," I say, "we take shifts. I'll take first."

Joel opens his mouth.

"I'm taking first," I say, with the authority of a woman who has crayons and a title and a plan.

He closes his mouth.