“Just… uh… making sure the sheep have a super cozy home!” Brisca chirped, her voice too high, too bright in the still night. She dropped the brace, letting it clatter, and fumbled with her phone, casting the light wildly around. “You know, for maximum comfy-ness. And, uh, structural… snuggliness.” Odis’s lips twitched, a faint, fleeting curve in the dimness. “Snuggliness,” he echoed, his tone unreadable. He didn’t press. He simply stood, watching her dismantle her careful work into a clumsy mess of loose timbers. Brisca knew he saw through her act, at least partially. It was a cold dread twisting in her stomach, but she just offered him a wide, goofy grin, as if she hadn’t been caught at all. Eventually, he just nodded slowly, then turned and walked back towards the main quarters, leaving her alone with the half-repaired pen and the quiet hum of the barge. The next morning, the sun beat down with an unexpected ferocity, baking the dew from the grass. Brisca was attempting to herd a particularly stubborn lamb named ‘Sir Fluffington’ (her own invention) when Ms. Gable’s shadow fell over her. The barge manager’s face was a study in tight-lipped disapproval, her eyes like chips of flint. “Tolvay. My office. Now.” Her voice was a low, dangerous rumble. Brisca’s carefully constructed cheer faltered for a fraction of a second. Gable's stare pressed down like a lead bar across her shoulders. She’d known this was coming. “Ooh, are we having a tea party?” Brisca trilled, bouncing up. “I love tea parties! Do you have little tiny sandwiches? I’m great at arranging them!” Gable only glared, her patience clearly worn thin. “The mechanical bay. And it’s not for tea.” The ‘mechanical bay’ was less an office and more a cavernous, echoing chamber deep in the barge’s belly. The air thrummed with the growl of engines and the sharp tang of oil. Pipes snaked across the ceiling, dripping occasionally into greasy puddles on the steel floor. In the center, a hulking, bearded man with a sweat-stained bandana—the head mechanic, Jedrek—wrestled with a massive pump, cursing under his breath. Steam hissed from a ruptured hose nearby. Gable gestured Brisca to a scarred metal table. “Sit.” Her voice was clipped. “I’ve been making inquiries about you, Tolvay. And your brother. There’s no record of you working for any agricultural outfit in the region. No references. And your… unique talents… don’t quite align with ‘farmhand’.” Brisca tilted her head. “Oh, you mean my incredible ability to make friends with chickens? It’s a gift! They tell me all their secrets.” She put on her most earnest, dim-witted expression, twisting a stray piece of twine between her fingers. Gable slammed a fist on the table. “Don’t play games with me! That sheep pen last night. That wasn’t clumsy repair work. That was structural engineering. And I saw you, the way you moved when that ram charged your brother. Not a clumsy farmhand. Not even close.” The rhythmic *thump-thump-hiss* of the struggling pump intensified. The mechanic swore loudly, kicking a wrench across the floor. “Blast it all! The main irrigation pump is seizing up. Relief valve’s stuck, and the whole system’s overheating! We lose the orchards if this goes down!” He wiped grease from his forehead, leaving a dark smudge. Gable’s attention flickered to the pump, a flicker of genuine concern replacing her usual severity. The orchards were the barge’s lifeblood. “What’s the problem? Can’t you bypass it?” “The bypass is integrated into the main feed! You’d have to shut down the entire system, drain it, and then risk catastrophic failure on restart. There’s no easy way to bleed the line if the valve won’t budge.” The mechanic threw his hands up in exasperation, his face streaked with oil and sweat. The smell of burning rubber began to permeate the air. Brisca, still performing her airhead act, leaned forward, peeking around Gable. “Oh, dear. Is it making funny noises? Maybe it needs a little… tickle?” She giggled, then pointed vaguely. “My uncle once had a really loud dishwasher, and he said if you just… jiggle the little twisty thingy near the big pipe, sometimes it lets out a little *pffft* and then it’s all quiet again.” The mechanic scoffed. “A dishwasher? This is a commercial-grade hydraulic pump, you daft girl!” “But it’s a pipe thing, right?” Brisca persisted, her face innocent. “Like… if the ‘twisty thingy’ on the primary outflow line, just before the first distribution manifold, was just… loosened a *tiny* bit… wouldn’t that relieve some of the line strain without having to shut the whole thing down? Just for a second? Like a burp!” She clapped her hands together, a goofy smile plastered on her face. The mechanic paused, brow furrowing in thought, before a flush crept up his neck. “That’s… that’s not standard procedure.” But he glanced at the rapidly climbing pressure gauge, then at the specific pipe Brisca had indicated. He knew she was right. It was a risky, unconventional, but potentially effective quick fix. It was the kind of maneuver a highly experienced engineer might consider, not a ditzy farmhand. Gable watched Brisca, her expression unreadable. Grumbling, the mechanic grabbed a wrench. He applied it to the fitting Brisca had indicated, twisting it with careful precision. A high-pitched hiss erupted, steam blasting out in a controlled plume. The entire bay vibrated, then the *thump-thump-hiss* eased. The needle dipped. The smell of burning rubber faded. The pump steadied, humming a normal, healthy rhythm. The mechanic stared at Brisca, his mouth open, cheeks crimson. He had been so focused on the textbook solutions, he hadn't considered the unorthodox but elegant one that had just saved his orchards. “How in the…?” Brisca beamed, triumphant. “See? Sometimes a little burp is all you need! I’m just so lucky with these things!” She winked, ignoring the fury in the mechanic's eyes and the sharp wariness hardening Gable’s face. Gable stepped forward, her hand outstretched. “Your ID, Tolvay.” Her voice was low, laced with a dangerous edge. “I’ll hold onto it until we disembark. Just to ensure you stay put. And to remind me who you really are.” Brisca’s smile faltered. The cold dread returned, sharper this time. She slowly reached into her pocket, pulling out her worn driver’s license. Gable snatched it, her fingers brushing Brisca’s, cold and unforgiving. Gable’s lips curved into a thin, humorless smirk. “Oh, and one more thing. Word just came down the wire. Unusual currents upriver. We’ll be reaching the international delta in ten days, not fourteen.”

Structural Integrity