Expert Handling

"I came to register a Portal location. I stayed because a cockatoo called me 'pretty boy' and I needed the validation."

The taxi deposited me at the entrance to Bonorong Wildlife Sanctuary later than I'd originally planned, but the delay was unavoidable. Taking Jamie's car would have been convenient—familiar, comfortable, mine in all but name—but convenience had become a luxury I could no longer afford. Detective Jenkins had already demonstrated an unhealthy interest in our property, and Terry's surveillance from across the street meant any vehicle movement was being noted. The last thing I needed was a police APB on Jamie's car while I was conducting reconnaissance at a wildlife sanctuary.

I paid the driver in cash—no digital trail, no credit card records—and stepped out into the crisp Tasmanian afternoon. Before fully committing to the open, I paused to scan the carpark and surrounding area. The habit had become second nature over the past week, my eyes automatically cataloguing potential threats, escape routes, anything out of place. The coast appeared clear.

This isn't so bad after all, I thought, stretching my back after the cramped ride. Without a car to worry about, I was free to disappear whenever I needed to. That was the whole point of coming here, after all—to activate a Portal location somewhere within the sanctuary grounds. Once that was done, I could step straight through to Clivilius and not have to worry about returning to collect a vehicle from the carpark. Clean exit. No trace left behind. Just another tourist who wandered off and was never seen again. And with a location registered, I could return whenever I felt like it—especially after hours, when the sanctuary was closed and there was no one around to witness my arrival.

A mental note flickered through my mind—I'd need to move Jamie's car to Clivilius sooner rather than later. It wasn't just about consolidating our Earth possessions anymore; the car was becoming an increasing security risk. Detective Jenkins was already stalking the house, and if Terry was reporting vehicle movements to the police, it wouldn't be long before they started paying closer attention to the specific movements of Jamie's car. Better to make it vanish entirely. Let the police put out their APBs and scour every road in Tasmania—they'd never see Jamie's car again.

The carpark was busier than I'd expected for a winter afternoon. Families piled out of four-wheel drives, children already bouncing with anticipation, parents wrestling with jackets and bags. A tour bus near the entrance disgorged a stream of elderly visitors moving at a more measured pace. Couples walked hand in hand toward the ticket office, their excitement palpable even from a distance. All of them here for the simple pleasure of encountering wildlife up close, blissfully unaware of the complicated reasons that had brought me to the same place.

Their enthusiasm was oddly contagious, lifting something in my chest despite the weight of the mission that had brought me here.

Beatrix would love this place.

The thought arrived unbidden, accompanied by a smile I couldn't quite suppress. Once I registered a Portal location here, she'd discover it soon enough—the way our Portal Keys seemed to reveal registered locations to both Guardians meant she'd have access the moment I activated it. I could picture her face when she realised what I'd done, the delight she'd try to mask beneath her usual sardonic exterior. She'd probably accuse me of being sentimental. She wouldn't be entirely wrong.

It had been years since I'd last visited Bonorong—a trip with Beatrix, back when our lives were simpler and portals existed only in science fiction. The memory was bittersweet, a glimpse of who we'd been before everything changed. Before Duke. Before Jamie's hatred. Before the endless weight of decisions that couldn't be unmade.

I shook off the nostalgia before it could take root and headed toward the entrance, forcing purpose back into my stride. Today wasn't about reliving fond memories. It was about reconnaissance, about ensuring our operations could continue with minimal disruption, about building the infrastructure that would keep us one step ahead of whatever it took to build a thriving settlement in an empty land.

The ticket counter was set into the entrance building, a window facing outward so visitors could purchase entry without needing to go inside. A young woman in the standard Bonorong uniform—polo shirt with the sanctuary logo, practical khaki pants—looked up as I approached. Her name tag identified her as Emma, and her smile was the kind of genuine warmth that suggested she actually enjoyed her job rather than merely tolerating it.

"Hi there," she said brightly. "Welcome to Bonorong. How many tickets today?"

"Just the one, thanks." I handed over the cash, maintaining the easy demeanour of an ordinary visitor. "I'm really excited to see all the animals and learn more about conservation."

The words slipped out with surprising sincerity. Somewhere beneath the layers of calculation and subterfuge, a part of me actually meant it.

The settlement wasn't ready for a wildlife sanctuary yet—we were still struggling with basics like fencing and shelter—but sooner or later, we'd need one. People needed more than just survival. They needed life around them. Animals. Plants. Something to nurture and care for beyond their own desperate circumstances. The barren ochre landscape of Bixbus wouldn't sustain spirits indefinitely.

Eventually we'd need to bring pieces of Earth with us, and places like Bonorong would be the source. Coming here wasn't just about Portal locations. It was about learning how such operations worked, gathering knowledge that might prove useful when the time came to build something meaningful.

"No problem," Emma replied, her fingers moving across the register. "We have a few different ticket options available. Do you want to go on a guided tour, participate in a wildlife feeding experience, or just explore the sanctuary on your own?"

I considered the options. The mission didn't require a guided tour—I could wander the grounds independently, find a suitable Portal location, and be gone within the hour. But something made me hesitate. The chance to learn more about the sanctuary's operations, to observe how professionals managed conservation efforts, to gather insights that might inform whatever we built in Bixbus... the opportunity was too valuable to dismiss for the sake of efficiency.

"I think I'll go on the guided tour," I decided. "That way I can learn more about the animals and the work that you do here."

Emma printed the ticket and handed it across along with a folded map of the sanctuary. "Here you go. The next tour starts in about fifteen minutes, so you have time to explore a bit before then. Here's a map of the sanctuary, and if you have any questions, just ask one of the staff members that will be roaming around."

"Thank you, Emma." I accepted the materials with a smile that felt more genuine than most I'd managed lately.

The first ten minutes dissolved into unexpected distraction. Near the entrance, a lone cockatoo occupied a perch that gave it a commanding view of arriving visitors. The bird's plumage was immaculate, its crest raised in apparent greeting, and as I paused to observe, it fixed me with one bright eye and said, with startling clarity, "Hello, mate."

I laughed—actually laughed, a sound that surprised me as much as the bird's greeting. "Hello yourself."

"Pretty boy," the cockatoo announced, bobbing its head. Whether it meant itself or me, I couldn't tell.

The exchange was ridiculous, meaningless, exactly the kind of simple pleasure I'd forgotten existed. I stood there longer than I should have, trading commentary with a bird that probably had a vocabulary of twelve words, feeling something in my chest unclench for the first time in days. The cockatoo didn't care about Portals or detectives or the moral weight of decisions made in impossible circumstances. It just wanted attention, and for a few minutes, I was happy to provide it.

But time was passing, and the tour would start soon. I gave the cockatoo a final nod—which it acknowledged with another bob of its crest—and made my way to the designated meeting spot.

The group that had assembled was diverse: families with excitable children, a young couple holding hands, what appeared to be a small school group with a harried-looking teacher attempting to maintain order. I positioned myself at the edge of the gathering, close enough to hear but far enough back to observe without being the centre of attention. Old habits.

The tour guide arrived moments later, striding toward us with an easy confidence that immediately commanded attention. He was young—mid-twenties, I estimated—with short curly blond hair and hazel eyes that seemed to catch the afternoon light. His build was lean but clearly muscular beneath the standard uniform, the physique of someone who spent more time in the field than behind a desk. When he smiled, it was the sort of smile that invited you to smile back.

"James," he introduced himself, his voice carrying warmth that felt entirely unforced. "I hope you're all as excited as I am for this tour."

The response was a general murmur of enthusiasm, punctuated by an ear-splitting "YEAH!" from one of the smaller children. James's eyes crinkled with amusement as he pressed a finger to his lips.

"Shh, not too loud," he said, directing a brief, conspiratorial glance in my direction. "Some of the animals are still sleeping, and we don't want to wake them up just yet."

I found myself returning a quiet chuckle, drawn into the easy rapport he was establishing with the group. There was something about James that invited trust—an openness in his manner, an obvious passion for his work that couldn't be faked. The kind of person who made you want to listen, to learn, to care about whatever they cared about.

Dangerous, some part of my mind noted. People like that make you forget to be careful.

I filed the warning away and let myself be absorbed by the tour.

James led us through the sanctuary with an ease that made the tour feel less like a scripted performance and more like a conversation with a knowledgeable friend. His delivery was engaging, his enthusiasm genuine rather than performed. He spoke about conservation efforts with a passion that went beyond professional obligation, painting a picture of work that mattered deeply to those who performed it.

I found my thoughts drifting, occasionally, to Bixbus. The barren settlement with its ochre dust and struggling tents. The settlers who hadn't asked to be there—who had been pushed, persuaded, or outright tricked into crossing a threshold they couldn't return through. Now they faced a harsh landscape and the constant threat of shadow panthers and the slow realisation that the lives they'd known were over. What would it mean to build something like this there? A place of life and wonder in a world that seemed determined to resist both?

The parallels weren't lost on me. Bonorong existed to protect creatures that couldn't protect themselves, to rehabilitate the injured and give sanctuary to the vulnerable. Wasn't that, in some twisted way, what I was trying to do? The methods differed—wildly, horrifically—but the underlying impulse felt familiar. The desire to build something worth preserving in a world that seemed intent on destruction.

As we walked past the koala enclosures, watching the placid creatures doze in the forks of gum trees, one of the other visitors asked James about his job satisfaction. "Do you actually like working here, or is it just... you know, a job?"

James's face transformed with the question, his expression softening into something almost reverent as he gazed around the sanctuary. "I love it here," he said simply. "I've been working here for a few years now, and I never get tired of seeing the animals and learning more about them. It's such a rewarding job."

His eyes found mine as he spoke, holding my gaze a moment longer than strictly necessary. Something passed between us—recognition, perhaps, or interest, or simply the connection that forms between people who share a moment of genuine exchange. I felt warmth spread across my cheeks and looked away, oddly flustered by the attention.

The tour continued, and I became increasingly aware of the subtle shifts in our dynamic. James seemed to gravitate toward my side of the group, his explanations occasionally directed specifically toward me, his gestures sometimes bringing him close enough that I could catch the faint scent of eucalyptus and something else—sunscreen, perhaps, or simply the outdoors. Once, while pointing out a particularly shy wallaby, his hand brushed my arm in a touch that could have been accidental but lingered just long enough to suggest otherwise.

This isn't why you're here, I reminded myself. Focus.

But focusing had become difficult. The combination of James's enthusiasm, the sanctuary's peaceful atmosphere, and my own exhausted emotional state had created something dangerously close to enjoyment. For the first time in days, I wasn't calculating risks or managing crises or trying to stay one step ahead of impending doom. I was just... present. Absorbing information. Allowing myself to be interested in something beyond mere survival.

James brought us to a halt near a large paddock, gesturing toward a magnificent specimen grazing in the distance. The kangaroo, upon noticing our attention, straightened to its full height—and kept straightening, revealing a stature that bordered on intimidating.

"That's our biggest male kangaroo," James announced, pride evident in his voice. "His name is Bob, and he's the leader of the mob."

"Wow, he's huge," I heard myself say, genuine wonder colouring my voice.

James's eyes met mine, a flicker of amusement dancing in them. "That's what they all say," he replied, his tone light but carrying an undertone that made my cheeks warm unexpectedly.

I'd seen kangaroos before—growing up in Broken Hill, driving the long roads between Adelaide and home, they'd been constant companions on night journeys. But those had been wild animals glimpsed in headlights, bounding away before you could properly register their presence. Bob was something else entirely. He stood like a monument to his species, observing us with an intelligence that seemed almost calculating.

How would a creature like Bob fit into Clivilius?

The thought arrived accompanied by a flash of imagination—kangaroos bounding across the ochre plains of Bixbus, adapting to a new world the way humans were slowly learning to adapt. The idea was absurd, logistically impossible, and yet, utterly captivating.

James caught my eye again, and this time his smile carried something knowing that had nothing to do with kangaroos. "Bob certainly is impressive," he agreed, holding my gaze a beat longer than necessary. "But he's a gentle giant. He's been living at Bonorong for years now, and he's a real favourite with the visitors and staff."

One of the children from the school group tugged at their teacher's sleeve. "Miss, can we pat the kangaroo?"

"Not Bob," James answered before the teacher could respond, his tone gentle but firm. "He's a bit too big for cuddles. But we've got some friendlier joeys at the next stop who love attention." He winked at the child. "Think you can be gentle?"

The little girl nodded solemnly, and James rewarded her with a grin before leading us onward. As the group shuffled forward, he fell into step beside me, close enough that our shoulders nearly brushed.

"Do you have a favourite?" he asked, pitching his voice low enough that it felt like a private conversation despite the crowd around us.

"A favourite?"

"Animal. Everyone who comes here has one they're secretly hoping to see."

I considered the question. "Tasmanian devils, I suppose. Never actually seen one up close."

James's face lit up. "Then you're in for a treat. We've got some absolute characters in our devil enclosure." He leaned in slightly, conspiratorial. "I'll make sure you get a good view."

True to his word, when we reached the Tasmanian devil exhibit, James positioned himself beside me at the viewing area, his arm brushing mine as he pointed out the various individuals. "That one there—the female with the white patch on her chest—that's Matilda. She's our oldest. And the two wrestling in the corner are brothers, Bruce and Bazza. They're always causing trouble."

As if on cue, Bruce and Bazza tumbled across their enclosure in a blur of black fur and playful snarls, their mock battle sending them crashing into their water dish with a spectacular splash. The school children erupted in delighted shrieks.

"They're showing off for you," James murmured, his breath warm against my ear. "They can always tell when someone's watching who actually cares."

I turned my head slightly, finding his face closer than I'd expected. "Is that your professional assessment?"

"Call it intuition." His eyes crinkled at the corners. "I'm very good at reading people."

The young couple nearby had noticed our exchange, the woman nudging her partner with a knowing smile. I felt heat creep up my neck and took a deliberate step back, pretending to study the information board mounted on the fence.

James allowed the distance but didn't seem discouraged. He raised his voice to address the group again, launching into an explanation of the sanctuary's devil breeding programme and the ongoing fight against facial tumour disease. The information was genuinely fascinating—the careful genetic management, the quarantine protocols, the hope that captive populations might one day replenish the wild—but I found myself watching James as much as listening to him.

The way his hands moved when he talked. The passion that animated his features when he described a successful release. The easy way he fielded questions from the children, never condescending, always encouraging their curiosity. He was good at this. Not just competent, but genuinely gifted at making people care about creatures they might otherwise overlook.

We could use someone like him in Bixbus.

I pushed the thought away before it could take root. I was not here to recruit tour guides. I was here for reconnaissance. To register a new portal location. For information that would help us build a settlement that could actually sustain itself.

But the thought lingered anyway.

We moved on to the wombat enclosure, where a particularly rotund specimen named Winston regarded our group with the weary disdain of a creature who had seen too many tourists and found them all equally beneath his notice.

"Wombats are actually quite territorial," James explained, gesturing toward Winston's impressive bulk. "And despite looking like cuddly barrels, they can run up to forty kilometres per hour when threatened. Their backsides are mostly cartilage, which they use to crush predators against the walls of their burrows."

"Seriously?" one of the school children asked, eyes wide.

"Seriously. Death by bum. It's a real thing."

The group dissolved into laughter, and James caught my eye again, clearly pleased with the reaction. I found myself laughing too—genuinely, without calculation or pretence—and the sound surprised me. When had I last laughed like that? Before Duke died. Before Jamie started hating me. Before everything became about survival and strategy and the weight of decisions I couldn't take back.

For a moment, standing in a wildlife sanctuary surrounded by strangers and watched by a dismissive wombat, I felt almost normal.

The echidna enclosure offered a quieter interlude. The spiny creatures were largely inactive, burrowed into their substrate with only the occasional quivering spine visible to suggest life beneath the surface. James explained their hunting habits, their unusual reproductive biology, their status as one of only two egg-laying mammals in the world.

"Platypus being the other," he added. "We don't have any here, unfortunately. They're notoriously difficult to keep in captivity."

"Have you worked with them?" I asked.

"Once. An internship at Healesville Sanctuary in Victoria during uni." His expression turned wistful. "Amazing creatures. Completely impossible to manage, but amazing."

"Sounds like most of the interesting things in life."

James laughed, a warm sound that did something uncomfortable to my chest. "Spoken like someone with experience."

"You could say that."

We'd drifted slightly behind the main group, the other visitors absorbed in trying to spot the buried echidnas. James turned to face me more fully, his expression shifting to something more serious.

"Can I ask you something?"

My guard went up instinctively. "Depends on what it is."

"You're not really here just for the animals, are you?"

The question hit closer to home than he could possibly know. I forced my expression to remain neutral. "What makes you say that?"

"You're paying attention differently than most visitors. They look at the animals. You look at..." he gestured vaguely, "everything. The fencing. The enclosure layouts. The way we move groups through the space. It's like you're studying us as much as you're studying the wildlife."

He was more observant than I'd given him credit for. The realisation was both impressive and concerning.

"I'm interested in conservation," I said carefully. "Not just as a spectator. I've been thinking about... getting more involved."

It wasn't entirely a lie. It just wasn't the whole truth either.

James studied me for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Well, if you ever want a behind-the-scenes tour—the real operations, not just the visitor experience—I could probably arrange something."

"Is that an official offer?"

"Consider it a personal one." His smile returned, carrying that hint of flirtation that had been threading through our interactions all afternoon. "I get the feeling you'd appreciate the details most people find boring."

Before I could respond, a commotion from the school group demanded his attention—something about one child having pushed another, tears threatening, the teacher looking increasingly desperate. James excused himself with an apologetic glance and waded into the chaos.

I watched him go, feeling oddly bereft of his presence. Which was ridiculous. I'd known the man for less than an hour. I had a partner—had being the operative word, given that Jamie had been fucked by another man and could barely stand to look at me anymore. I had responsibilities and secrets and a mission that had nothing to do with attractive tour guides with hazel eyes and easy smiles.

But I kept watching anyway, as James calmed the crying child and restored order with a combination of gentle authority and the promise of hand-feeding wallabies at the next stop. He was good with people. Good with chaos. Good at making hard things seem manageable.

We could really use someone like him in Bixbus.

The thought came again, and this time I didn't push it away.

The wallaby feeding station was clearly the highlight of the tour for most visitors. James distributed small cups of feed pellets and led us into an open area where dozens of wallabies hopped and lounged with casual disregard for human presence. Children squealed as the animals approached, parents fumbled for cameras, and even the most reserved members of the tour group found themselves smiling as soft noses investigated their outstretched hands.

I hung back initially, observing rather than participating. But James appeared at my elbow with a cup of pellets and a raised eyebrow.

"You're not going to just watch, are you?"

"I was considering it."

"Unacceptable." He pressed the cup into my hands, his fingers brushing mine in a contact that lingered a fraction too long. "Go on. They don't bite. Well, they don't bite hard."

Reluctantly, I crouched down and held out my palm. Almost immediately, a small grey wallaby hopped over, regarding me with liquid brown eyes before dipping its head to investigate my offering. Its nose was soft, its tongue ticklish as it licked pellets from my hand. Something in my chest loosened at the simple pleasure of the contact.

"See?" James had crouched beside me, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his body. "Not so hard."

"I never said it would be hard."

"Your body language did." He was watching me rather than the wallabies, his attention focused in a way that felt almost intimate despite the crowd around us. "You carry a lot of tension. Anyone ever tell you that?"

"Once or twice."

"What do you do? To deal with it?"

I laughed, though there wasn't much humour in it. "Lately? Not enough."

James was quiet for a moment, feeding pellets to a wallaby of his own. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. "You know, we have volunteer programmes here. If you're ever looking for something to... I don't know. Ground you? Working with animals is good for that."

"Is that another personal offer?"

"It's a genuine one." He met my eyes, and for a moment the flirtation fell away, replaced by something more earnest. "Whatever's weighing on you—and something clearly is—this kind of work can help. Being around creatures that don't care about human problems. It puts things in perspective."

I didn't know how to respond to the unexpected sincerity. The wallaby finished its pellets and hopped away, apparently deciding I was no longer interesting, and I straightened up to avoid having to hold James's gaze.

"I'll think about it," I said finally.

"That's all I ask."

The tour wound toward its conclusion after that, moving through the remaining exhibits with a pace that felt slightly rushed compared to the meandering exploration that had preceded it. James maintained his professional commentary—facts about quolls and pademelons and the ongoing threats to Tasmania's native wildlife—but something had shifted between us. The flirtation remained, but it was underlaid now with something else. Recognition, perhaps. The awareness that we'd both glimpsed something beneath the other's surface.

The tour wound toward its conclusion after that, James guiding us back toward the entrance area where we'd begun. The school group peeled off first, their teacher herding them toward the gift shop with promises of souvenirs for those who behaved. The elderly contingent dispersed more slowly, several of them stopping to thank James personally for his time and knowledge.

I hung back, watching the crowd thin, telling myself I wanted a quiet moment to identify a suitable Portal location.

That was partially true. But it wasn't the whole truth.

"Thanks, James," I said, approaching him as the last of the other visitors drifted away. I extended my hand, and he took it with a grip that was warm and lingered slightly longer than professional courtesy required. "That was a really good tour."

"You're welcome." His voice dropped, taking on an almost intimate quality despite the open space around us. He hadn't released my hand. "I hope you enjoyed it."

"I did. More than I expected to."

"That sounds like there's a story there."

I laughed softly. "Several, probably. None of them suitable for polite conversation."

"Good thing I'm not particularly polite, then."

His thumb traced a small circle against the back of my hand—deliberate, unmistakable. The contact sent a shiver through me that had nothing to do with the winter air.

"About that behind-the-scenes tour," he said, still holding my gaze. "I was serious. If you're interested in conservation—properly interested, not just tourist interested—I'd be happy to show you how things really work around here."

"And this is purely professional, is it?"

"Does it need to be?"

The question hung between us, charged with possibility. I was suddenly acutely aware of my own complicated position. Jamie hated me. Our relationship was in ruins, possibly beyond repair. And here I stood, hand still clasped with an attractive stranger, feeling something I hadn't felt in weeks, perhaps even months—interest. Connection. The simple human desire to be seen by someone who didn't know all the terrible things I'd done.

James seemed to sense my hesitation. His grip loosened slightly, giving me space to retreat if I needed it, but his eyes remained warm. "No pressure," he said. "But the offer stands. Here—"

He finally released my hand, reaching into his pocket to produce a business card. "My mobile's on there. If you ever want that tour. Or just want to... talk. About conservation. Or whatever."

I took the card, our fingers brushing in the exchange. "Conservation. Or whatever."

"Exactly."

We stood there for a moment longer, neither of us quite willing to break the connection, until a voice called out from across the grounds.

"And here comes the real leader of the sanctuary," James said, his tone shifting to something lighter as he turned toward the source. A young man was approaching from one of the nearby buildings, his gait unhurried despite the koala cradled in his arms. The small marsupial appeared entirely unconcerned by the movement, its eyes half-closed in what looked like blissful contentment.

"Grant!" James called, raising a hand in greeting.

"Hey, James." Grant Ironbach drew closer, and I revised my initial assessment—he was older than he'd appeared from a distance, probably mid-thirties, with the weathered confidence of someone who'd spent years working outdoors. His grip on the koala was practiced and gentle, the kind of hold that spoke to countless hours of animal handling. "Good tour?"

"One of the better ones." James shot me a glance that carried layers of meaning. "Engaged audience."

Grant's attention shifted to me, curious but not unfriendly. "Always good to hear. Welcome to Bonorong."

"Thanks. It's an impressive operation you've got here."

"We try." He adjusted his hold on the koala, which made a small grumbling sound of protest before settling again. "This is Dudley, by the way. He's a bit of a celebrity around here. Orphaned at three months, hand-raised by staff. Now he thinks he's people."

Dudley blinked at me with the slow, unimpressed gaze of a creature who had indeed been told too often how special he was.

"He's gorgeous," I said, and meant it.

"Don't tell him that. His ego's big enough already." Grant's tone was affectionate despite the words. "So what brings you to Bonorong? James give you the full conservation pitch?"

"He was very thorough."

"I'll bet he was."

There was something in Grant's tone—a knowing quality that suggested he'd observed James's 'thorough' treatment of visitors before. James, for his part, seemed entirely unabashed.

"I was just telling..." James paused, turning to me with a slightly sheepish expression. "Actually, I don't think I ever caught your name."

Before I could answer, a voice cut across the conversation.

"Grant! There you are!"

All three of us turned toward the source—a young woman striding toward us with the particular energy of someone who had been searching for far too long and had opinions about it. She was striking in the way of people who didn't realise they were striking, her hair pulled back in a practical ponytail, her expression carrying the focused intensity of someone with a mission.

"I've been looking everywhere for you," she continued, not slowing her approach. "We're supposed to be in the meeting room in five minutes, and you're out here having a chat like we've got all day."

"Well, you've found us," Grant replied with the particular tone of someone long accustomed to his sister's dramatic arrivals. He gestured to himself and Dudley. "We're right here."

"Yes, I can see that." She'd reached us now, slightly out of breath, and her attention immediately fixed on me. "And you must be Brad."

The name hit me sideways. Brad?

"I—" I started, but she was already extending her hand, her grip firm and businesslike as she shook mine.

"Sarah Ironbach. Assistant Director. James forwarded us the documents you sent—absolutely fascinating proposal. Grant and I have been discussing it all week."

I shot a glance at James, who looked as confused as I felt. He gave a small shrug that seemed to say I have no idea what's happening either.

"The timeline's ambitious," Sarah continued, apparently interpreting my silence as modesty, "but I think we can make it work. The board's been pushing for more community partnerships, and this could be exactly what we need to—"

"Sarah." Grant's voice carried a note of gentle interruption. "Maybe let the man get a word in?"

She stopped mid-sentence, blinking as if suddenly remembering that conversations typically involved more than one person speaking. "Right. Sorry. I get ahead of myself sometimes." A rueful smile crossed her face. "So—Brad—what do you think? Can we make this happen?"

The silence stretched for a beat too long.

I should correct her. The thought was clear, obvious, the only sensible course of action. I should explain that I wasn't Brad, that there had been some mistake, that I was just a visitor who had taken a guided tour and gotten momentarily distracted by a charming guide with hazel eyes.

But the words wouldn't come.

Because somewhere in the back of my mind, a different calculation was taking place. A proposal. Documents. A partnership with a wildlife sanctuary. Whatever Brad had been planning, whatever opportunity he'd been cultivating, it had just fallen into my lap through pure accident.

We could use someone like James in Bixbus.

The thought that had been circling all afternoon surfaced again, but now it carried new weight. Not just James. This whole operation. People who knew how to build and run a wildlife sanctuary, who understood conservation and animal care and the delicate work of creating something meaningful from challenging circumstances.

What if this wasn't an accident? What if this was exactly the opportunity I'd been hoping for, just arriving in unexpected form?

"I think," I heard myself say, "that we should probably discuss this somewhere more private."

Sarah's face lit up. "Absolutely. Grant, bring Dudley—Brad should see the facility properly. James, can you join us? You know the operational side better than anyone."

"Of course." James fell into step beside me as Sarah led the way toward one of the staff buildings, her energy carrying her several paces ahead. His voice dropped low enough that only I could hear. "So... Brad. Interesting name."

"It's not—" I started, then stopped.

His expression was curious rather than accusatory. "Not what?"

"Nothing. It's complicated."

"Most interesting things are." He held the door marked "Staff Only" open for me, his smile carrying that same warmth it had throughout the afternoon. "I'm looking forward to finding out just how complicated."

Grant followed us inside, Dudley still nestled in his arms, his expression suggesting he was trying to find his bearings in a situation that had shifted beneath him without warning.

The feeling was mutual.

Somehow, in the space of a few minutes, I had gone from anonymous tourist to mistaken identity, swept along toward a meeting I knew nothing about, carrying information about documents I had never sent, representing someone named Brad who presumably existed somewhere but definitely wasn't me.

Well, I thought, as the door swung closed behind us, this is certainly not how I expected the afternoon to go.

But I didn't correct them. I let the mistake stand, let myself be carried forward by circumstances I hadn't created, allowed the mistaken identity to persist because... why? Because it might be useful? Because I was curious? Because some dark part of me recognised an opportunity in the confusion?

All of the above, probably. And something else too—something I didn't want to examine too closely. The realisation that in all the chaos and manipulation and moral compromise that had become my life, the universe had just handed me something unexpected.

An opening. A possibility. A fresh web of intrigue waiting to be unravelled.

And a charming tour guide who seemed far more perceptive than was entirely comfortable.