Chapter 8 #3
Theo gives a single nod, hands steady on the wheel. “Correct. It’s slated to be the tallest multi-launch coaster in the South.”
“I do have a question for you. Why are we doing the site visit on a Saturday?”
“Because it’s the only window we can walk the site without any major construction work going on or guests getting in the way, since the park doesn’t open until ten.”
“Oh, that makes sense.”
His lips twitch. “When we get there, the important thing is to not let the spectacle or scale of the build distract you. Our job is to review the attraction in close detail.”
“Like the track alignment.”
“Precisely.”
Because I’m an overachiever and I want him to know I did my homework, I add, “It was in your notes. Lateral misalignment amplifies vibration, especially through the high-G launch sections. It’s subtle at first, but it compounds over time until the hardware literally shakes itself apart.”
“Yes. And what else did I have in there?” His voice is even. He’s testing me.
I unlock my mental file cabinet, scrolling through the digital pages of the Medusa’s Fury brief. There was something else—something more personal than just physics. “You voiced concerns that the construction team was being . . . lackadaisical.”
Theo’s jaw ticks. “That was the polite version for the official report. What I meant was inattentive. In this industry, cutting corners doesn’t just lead to delays; it leads to accidents.”
“I understand.” I sit a little straighter. “It’s the same thing you told me during my first week when we, er, discussed my stress analysis.”
“I’m not sure if ‘discussed’ is the right word here, but yes. Go on,” he says.
I watch palm trees blur past as we merge onto the highway. “I was making my calculations based on perfect conditions. I didn’t leave any room for the human factor.”
“Based on that, what does that mean for today?” He nods toward the horizon, where the cranes and the steel skeleton of Medusa’s Fury are beginning to loom.
“It means while we’re out here in the real world, I need to be more concerned with what’s in front of me. I’m looking for any human error that the software couldn’t predict.”
“Good.” His gaze flicks toward me before returning to the road. “I’m glad you were listening.”
“I’m not here to make the same mistake twice,” I say, quieter than I intend.
The highway dips, and the construction site spreads out before us.
Loops of track hang suspended midair. Cranes are locked in place, and job trailers are lined up like toy blocks.
Even from here, I can see the crew swarming the base of the structure, tiny figures moving against the massive frame.
This coaster is going to be the largest yet at Tampa’s Boysenberry Farms Park.
A thrill shoots through me, sharp and electric.
This is my dream coming to life. I’m not in a classroom anymore, and I’m not stuck in the office staring at numbers and models on a screen.
I’m actually here, seeing the things the team and I have created taking shape in the real world, which still feels weird to even think, let alone say.
Theo slows the car and flashes his ID at the security guard before we’re waved through the gate to Boysenberry Farms. He parks near the front, kills the engine, and finally turns to me. “Ready?”
I can’t find the words. All I can do is bob my head up and down, like an eager puppy.
“I’ll do the talking. You observe and take notes.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, saluting him.
He rolls his eyes. “Come on, Minami.”
Outside, the rumble of machinery and the metallic rattle of tools fill the air. The smell of diesel and hot steel hits as soon as I open the door. My blazer already feels too heavy. Why did I wear it? I knew it was going to be hot and humid today.
I’ve been here two months, and I still haven’t gotten a Florida-appropriate wardrobe. I make a mental note to go shopping on my next day off. Opting for comfort, I leave the coat in the car and set out in a sleeveless lilac top.
Theo grabs a high-vis vest and hard hat from the back seat and hands me a set. “Gear up, Minami.”
I slide on the rough fabric of the vest, but the helmet strap is another story. It’s stiff, and my clumsy fingers can’t quite get the plastic clip into the buckle. I’m fumbling under my chin, growing more frustrated by the second, when a shadow falls over me.
“Hold still,” Theo says, chuckling.
Before I can protest, he leans in. His scent hits me first—sandalwood and a hint of something sweet. Whatever it is, it’s a nice clean smell.
His fingers are cool as they brush against the sensitive skin of my jaw, steadying the strap.
The contact is brief, but it sends a sharp, electric pulse straight through me.
He clicks the buckle into place with a definitive snap and lingers for just a heartbeat, his thumb grazing the edge of my chin as he checks the tension. “There.”
By the time I look up, he’s already stepping back, his expression once again unreadable behind those dark lenses. “Here we go.”
We step onto the gravel path leading toward the job trailers.
Sunlight flashes off the steel track, bright enough to make me squint.
A crane groans overhead as a section of rail is lifted into position, workers guiding it with taglines, their voices raised over the clamor.
Sweat beads at the base of my neck almost immediately.
Theo’s stride is purposeful, as if he owns every square inch of the site. Crew members straighten when they notice him. Their chatter stops. I hurry to keep pace, my boots crunching against the gravel.
He doesn’t look back, but his voice carries, pitched low enough that only I can hear. “Remember what we discussed in the car.”
“I will,” I say softly.
We approach the base of the cobra roll, where a foreman in a battered hard hat waves us over.
“Morning, Mr. Riverton.” His voice is rough, probably from decades of shouting over heavy machinery.
“You’re just in time. We’re ahead of schedule since your last visit.
We’ve got the launch track section lined up for welding. ”
“Good.” Theo shakes his hand. “We’ll do a walk-through first, then go over the logs and survey marks.” He gestures toward me, still focused on the foreman. “This is Kaori Minami, one of the engineers on my team. She’ll need access to your torque logs.”
The foreman’s gaze flicks past me, already drifting back to Theo, like I’m an attachment instead of a person.
It’s not the first time, nor will it be the last, that I’ll be disregarded like this.
This is a man’s world—or at least it still feels that way.
The crews don’t expect to see someone like me in the field.
And part of me hates that I almost understand why they doubt me.
Theo leads the way as we weave past stacks of rebar and coils of cable. “This section is looking good.”
I follow his line of sight, and at first, I agree. The track curves cleanly overhead. All the welds appear to be uniform, and the supports are aligned. It’s impressive—until I look closer.
Just beneath a scaffold, a joint catches my eye.
Three bolts don’t sit flush against the splice plate—the heads are tilted just enough to set off a silent alarm in the back of my brain.
It’s subtle, the kind of thing you only notice if you’ve spent a thousand hours staring at CAD models.
It wouldn’t cause a failure today, but over time, those uneven load paths would concentrate stress in all the wrong places.
It’s a hairline fracture waiting to happen.
I snap a quick photo on my tablet and zoom in, my heart hammering against my ribs. Maybe it’s just perspective distortion, I tell myself. A trick of the light. I pinch the screen, staring until the pixels blur. But the longer I stare at it, the more certain I am that it’s off.
I chew at my lip, weighing the risks. If I speak up and I’m wrong, I’m the overeager junior who can’t tell the difference between a shadow and a structural flaw. I’ll be back to square one with Theo. But if I stay silent and I’m right, I’m letting a ticking time bomb stay buried in the steel.
My grip tightens on the tablet until my knuckles ache. This is what we talked about in the car. This is the human factor. Despite every instinct telling me to stay in my lane and let Theo handle the heavy lifting, I know I can’t let this go.
I step closer to him, careful to keep my voice low. “Theo, there’s something you should see.”
He doesn’t look at me, but he does shift his stance, a subtle acknowledgment that he’s listening even as the foreman continues outlining the weld schedule. He exhales through his nose, just once, then shifts his stance. “Go on,” he says evenly, still facing the foreman.
I angle my tablet toward him, keeping it discreet. “It’s the splice joint beneath the scaffold. The second support in from the access ladder.”
He flicks a glance at the foreman, then back to the track. “I walked that section myself last week,” he says evenly. “And we had a survey conducted on Thursday. It came back clean.”
“I know,” I say, quietly but firmly. “But was the survey done before final torque? If the bolts aren’t fully seated when they’re tightened, the readings will still pass and the issue—”
“Isn’t the alignment. It’s the contact,” he says. “Let me see that tablet.”
I hand it over. He zooms in on the photo, his eyes narrowing as he deconstructs the image. His jaw tightens. He lifts his gaze to the scaffold, eyes tracing the support, then locking onto the joint itself. “Bloody hell,” he mutters under his breath, just loud enough for me to hear.
Theo hands the tablet back to me without a word and turns just as Mr. Delaney, the theme park’s CEO, and the man whose signature ultimately decides whether this ride lives or dies, strides toward us, flanked by two executives. “Mr. Delaney,” he says evenly. “Good morning.”