Chapter 3
The Yummy Order
Lincoln
Lincoln stood at the dessert table, watching chaos unfold in real time.
When Aunt Charlie had assigned him this task, the table had been empty. A blank canvas. Infinite organizational possibilities.
That had lasted approximately ninety seconds.
Joy had placed her brown butter pecan tart at the far left—a reasonable starting point.
Ella had set her Fancy Pants cookies in the center, establishing a second anchor.
Then Aunt Ray had wedged something wrapped in aluminum foil directly between them, disrupting the spatial logic entirely. After that, it had been a free-for-all.
A chocolate cake now sat precariously close to something that appeared to be a fruit salad—though Lincoln questioned whether fruit salad qualified as dessert.
A pie of indeterminate origin had been shoved between two plates of cookies.
A casserole dish containing either bread pudding or a failed science experiment occupied prime center real estate.
Someone had even deposited a plate of what might have been fudge directly on top of a stack of napkins, rendering both items less functional.
Lincoln was calculating optimal reorganization strategies when he became aware of being watched.
He turned.
A small girl stood three feet away, studying him with an intensity that seemed incongruous with her three years of life. Marie. Jess and Ethan’s daughter—his first cousin once removed, though the exact terminology seemed less relevant than the fact that she was clearly waiting for something.
She had her mother’s coloring and her father’s quiet watchfulness, but the way she studied him—cataloging, analyzing, drawing conclusions—that was something else entirely.
“You’re going to fix it,” she said. Not a question.
“Yes. Immediately.”
Marie nodded, apparently satisfied with his answer. She moved to stand beside him, her head barely clearing the table’s edge, and surveyed the disorder with the same focused disapproval he felt.
“It’s a disastew,” she pronounced.
“It requires systematic intervention,” Lincoln agreed.
“Can I help?”
Lincoln considered the question. Children, in his experience, were unpredictable variables. They asked questions without waiting for answers, demanded attention at irregular intervals, and frequently introduced chaos into otherwise manageable situations.
But Marie wasn’t fidgeting or demanding or asking why repeatedly. She just watched him with those serious dark eyes, waiting for his assessment.
“Why do you want to help?”
“You make sense.” She said it like it was obvious. Like it was the highest compliment she could offer. “Other people are confusing. You’re not.”
Lincoln didn’t know what to do with that information. He filed it away for later processing and focused on the task.
“Okay, you can help. First, we assess. Identify all items. Categorize by type, then rank by quality.”
“What’s quality?”
“How good something tastes. How well it’s made. Whether it achieves its intended purpose.”
Marie considered this with the gravity of a scientist confronting a new hypothesis. “So we have to taste everything?”
“Assessment through direct observation is the most accurate method, yes.”
Something shifted in Marie’s expression—a brightness entering her eyes that Lincoln recognized. It was the look of someone who’d just realized they could combine duty with pleasure.
“I’m a vewy good taster,” she informed him.
“Noted.”
They began.
The first item was easy: Joy’s brown butter pecan tart. Lincoln lifted the cover, and Marie immediately leaned in, her whole body oriented toward the food.
“Joy’s food is always excellent,” he declared. “We probably don’t need to taste it, since she’s a professional. Then again, maybe we should verify. Scientific rigor requires—”
“Scientific wigor,” Marie repeated, the ‘r’ slipping away from her, “means tasting Joy’s food. For science.”
For science. Exactly. Who could argue with that logic? He selected two small pieces—one for each of them—and they ate in companionable silence. The bourbon caramel was exceptional. The pecans had been toasted to precise golden perfection.
“Confirmed excellent,” Marie announced, licking caramel from her fingers.
“Agreed. Excellence end.” Lincoln positioned Joy’s tart at the far right of the table.
And just like that, they had a system.
They moved through the items systematically. Ella’s Fancy Pants contributions—professionally made, structurally sound, aesthetically pleasing—joined Joy’s at the excellence end. Violet’s traditional Christmas cookies, slightly old-fashioned but executed with obvious skill, went nearby.
“What about that one?” Marie pointed to a bundt cake that had been aggressively frosted.
Lincoln examined it. The frosting application suggested enthusiasm over technique. The cake itself had a slight lean that indicated uneven baking. But the smell was promising—vanilla and something citrus.
“We need to taste it.”
Marie was already reaching for a piece from the edge where it wouldn’t be noticed. She tasted, chewed thoughtfully, and delivered her verdict.
“It’s good but not pwofessional.”
“Agreed. Middle section.”
They continued. Finn’s surprise contribution—an apple crumble that Lincoln had not expected from his uncle—turned out to be exceptional.
“When did Gwandpa Finn start baking?” Marie asked, clearly as surprised as Lincoln.
“I don’t know.”
“Gwandma Charlie doesn’t bake good.” Marie’s tone was matter-of-fact. “Maybe Gwandpa Finn had to learn.”
Lincoln filed this observation away. It was logical. Perhaps even insightful.
“Excellence end,” Marie declared after tasting. Lincoln placed the crumble accordingly.
Then they reached the covered dishes.
“That one’s Aunt Ray’s,” Marie said, pointing to the aluminum-foil-wrapped mystery.
“How do you know?”
“The foil has the same bumpy pattern as last time.” Marie’s expression grew serious. “Aunt Ray’s dessewts are... adventuwous.”
Lincoln carefully peeled back the foil. Inside sat something that might have been brownies, if brownies had been through a traumatic experience. The edges were charred. The center looked undercooked. The texture appeared to be simultaneously crunchy and gelatinous.
“Assessment?” Lincoln asked.
Marie regarded the dish with the gravity of a scientist confronting an unknown specimen. “Aunt Ray lives in the woods. She’s very good at other things.”
“That’s not an assessment. That’s context.”
“But the context is important.” Marie poked the nearest brownie-adjacent object. It did not yield. “She’s very bwave. The people who eat this should also be bwave.”
Brave. Lincoln added another data point to his mental catalog of Marie’s speech patterns. Her ‘r’ sounds were unreliable, but her logic was impeccable. Not surprising given she was Jess’s daughter. Jess was a genius by every sense of the word.
“The brave end,” he said. “For items requiring courage to consume.”
Marie’s eyes lit up. “I like that. Not the bad end. The bwave end.”
His mother’s contribution came next—a pie with a crust that had achieved a color Lincoln could only describe as aggressive beige. The filling had separated into distinct layers that moved independently when the plate was tilted.
Lincoln stared at his mother’s creation. He loved her. He did not love her baking.
“Mommy says Aunt Quinn twies very hard,” Marie offered.
“Effort is admirable. But results are what matter for categorization.”
“Bwave end?”
“Brave end.”
Aunt Charlie’s cookies had the density of small boulders. When Lincoln tapped one against the table, it made a sound like stone striking wood.
“These could be weapons,” Marie observed.
“The structural integrity is impressive. The edibility is questionable.”
“Bwave end.”
By the time they finished, the table had been transformed. Excellence anchored the right side—Joy, Ella, Violet, Finn’s surprising crumble. The middle section held the competent-but-unremarkable contributions. And the left side...
The left side was a testament to love over skill, enthusiasm over execution, the triumph of the human spirit over basic baking chemistry.
“It’s bewautiful,” Marie breathed.
Lincoln surveyed their work. There was a certain elegance to it—the clear progression from exceptional to questionable, the logical ordering that would allow party guests to make informed decisions about their dessert consumption.
“It’s efficient,” he corrected.
“Efficient is bewautiful.”
He looked down at her—this small person who processed the world the way he did, who found beauty in systems and order in chaos. Who didn’t require him to explain himself or apologize for how his brain worked.
“You’re not wrong,” he said.
Marie beamed.
The sound of approaching footsteps made Lincoln turn. Zac Mackay—Annie’s husband, Becky’s father, one of the original Linear Tactical founders—had entered the room. He stopped when he saw the table.
His gaze traveled from the excellence end to the brave end. Lingered on Aunt Ray’s covered dish, which Lincoln had thoughtfully labeled with a small folded napkin reading PROCEED WITH CAUTION.
“Lincoln.” Zac’s voice was carefully neutral. “Did you organize the desserts by quality?”
“Technically by Optimal Consumption Priority,” Lincoln corrected. “Marie assisted.”
Marie nodded solemnly. “We used scientific wigor, Uncle Zac.”
Zac stared at the table for a long moment. Then his shoulders started to shake.
He was laughing. Actually laughing—the deep, genuine kind that transformed his whole face.
“Well,” he managed, “you’re not wrong. But if your Aunt Charlie sees this—”
He turned toward the main room. “Finn! Get in here.”
Finn appeared in the doorway moments later, drawn by something in Zac’s tone. He took in the table, the categorization, the warning note on Ray’s dish.
“Oh, this is beautiful.” Finn moved closer, examining their system with obvious appreciation. “You’ve got Ray’s brownies in the danger zone. That’s just accurate labeling.”
“We called it the bwave end,” Marie supplied. “For bwave people.”
“The brave end.” Finn grinned at Lincoln. “I love it. Absolutely love it.”
“Should we rearrange before the others see?” Lincoln asked. The question was genuine—he wasn’t certain of the social implications of publicly ranking family members’ baking abilities.
Finn and Zac exchanged a look.
“Oh, hell no,” Zac said. “Anyone who’s been in this family longer than fifteen seconds knows exactly where Ray’s desserts belong on that table.”
“Charlie might take offense,” Finn pointed out. But he was still grinning.
“Charlie’s cookies could be used for home defense. She knows.” Zac clapped Lincoln on the shoulder. “Leave it. This is the most logical thing anyone’s ever done at one of these gatherings.”
They left it.
Over the next hour, Lincoln watched the family interact with his system. Bear studied the table, located Joy’s tart at the excellence end, and shot Lincoln a knowing look.
“Smart,” was all he said.
Theo grabbed something from the middle section without comment. Derek selected items exclusively from the right side, clearly aware of the ranking system even if no one had explained it.
The brave end remained largely untouched.
Until Ray herself approached.
Lincoln tensed. Aunt Ray was formidable—small and silver-haired but with a presence that suggested she could end you with household objects if necessary. Her reputation with a crossbow was legendary. Her reputation in the kitchen was... also legendary, but differently.
She surveyed the table. Her gaze landed on her own contribution, clearly marked, positioned at the far left of the arrangement.
Lincoln waited for anger. Offense. Some form of retribution.
“Hm.” Ray picked up one of her brownies, examined it, and took a bite. She chewed thoughtfully. “Not my best work.”
“It’s at the bwave end,” Marie offered. “For people with couwage.”
Ray looked down at the small girl, then back at Lincoln. Something shifted in her expression—not quite amusement, but adjacent to it.
“Brave end. I like that.” She took another bite of her own brownie, apparently unbothered by its questionable texture. “Accurate, too. Takes courage to eat my baking.”
“You’re vewy good at other things,” Marie said earnestly.
“I am.” Ray winked at her. “And I respect a system that tells the truth. Too many people pretend bad cooking is good because they’re afraid of hurt feelings.”
She looked at Lincoln directly. “You don’t pretend.”
“I don’t know how,” he admitted.
“That’s not a flaw, Linc. That’s a gift. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
She walked away with her brownie, leaving Lincoln standing at the table with Marie, trying to process what had just happened.
“Aunt Way isn’t mad,” Marie observed.
“No. She’s not.”
“She said you have a gift.”
Lincoln looked down at his small assistant, then back at the table they’d organized together.
At the system they’d built, which ranked things honestly and hurt no feelings.
At the family moving around them, accepting the ranking without offense, laughing at the accurate placement of their own failures.
They accepted him. Not despite his inability to pretend, but because of it.
“Maybe I do,” he said quietly.
Marie slipped her hand into his. Her fingers were sticky—chocolate and bourbon caramel from Joy’s tart, probably—but he didn’t pull away.
“I think so too,” she said. “You make sense, Lincoln. That’s the best thing.”
He didn’t know what to do with the warmth that settled in his chest at her words. Didn’t know how to categorize it or file it or rank it on any scale he understood.
But standing there in the crowded room, holding the hand of a three-year-old who thought making sense was the best thing a person could do, he decided maybe he didn’t need to.
Some things didn’t need to be organized.
Some things just were.
*
* Books from characters in this chapter:
Lincoln Bollinger (& Mercury) – HERO’S TOUCH
Marie Bollinger (parents Jess & Ethan – HERO FOREVER and all the Linear Tactical books)
Ray & Dorian Lindstrom (Theo & Savannah as children) – GHOST, SCOUT epilogue, BLAZE
Zac & Annie Mackay – CYCLONE
Ella & Colton – HERO’S PRIZE
Violet & Aiden - SHAMROCK