The Things We Repair
Copyright© 2026 by Flubu
Chapter 34: Things To Do While Waiting
Daniel found Neris alphabetizing the emergency pantry at six fourteen in the morning. He stood in the kitchen doorway for several seconds before saying anything. She had taken every packet, tin, sealed container and emergency ration from the narrow cupboard beside the refrigerator and arranged them across the counter. Labels faced outward. Categories had been formed. Subcategories existed within the categories. Daniel could tell because Neris had made small temporary markers from folded scraps of paper.
He leaned against the doorframe. “What are you doing?”
Neris looked over her shoulder. “Improving pantry organization.”
“At six in the morning.”
“Yes.”
Daniel looked at the counter. “Is that powdered soup alphabetized?”
“No.”
He waited. Neris’s ears moved. “It is sorted by primary nutritional category, shelf life, preparation complexity and then alphabetically within equivalent categories.”
Daniel nodded slowly. “Of course.”
Neris returned to the cupboard. Daniel walked toward the coffee maker. His monitor remained green. That meant Neris allowed him to walk without commentary. Mostly.
He poured water. “Couldn’t sleep?”
“I slept.”
“How much?”
“Enough.”
“Define enough.”
“I completed the necessary rest interval.”
“That is not a number.”
She placed three tins onto the second shelf.
Daniel waited.
“Three hours, twelve minutes.”
He stopped pouring. “Neris.”
“I am functional.”
“You say that like ER.”
“That is because it is accurate.”
ER’s voice came through the kitchen speaker. “Neris has also recalibrated the aft environmental sensor.”
Daniel looked upward. “Why?”
“Calibration variance was zero-point-zero-three percent.”
Daniel stared. Neris continued working. “And now?”
“Zero-point-zero-one percent.”
Daniel looked toward her. “That was definitely keeping the ship from flying.”
“No.”
“Good use of time.”
Neris’s tail moved once behind her. Daniel poured the coffee. Claire came downstairs seven minutes later wearing socks, a long sweater and the expression of someone who had slept better than either of them and knew it. She entered the kitchen and took in the scene at the counter.
“Are you both pretending to be busy?”
Daniel lifted his mug. “I’m drinking coffee.”
“That isn’t busy.”
“It’s foundational.”
Claire looked at Neris. “You alphabetized the emergency pantry.”
Neris turned. “It was not alphabetized.”
Daniel pointed toward her. “See? Necessary.”
ER said, “Daniel has also checked the livestock supply inventory twice since five fifty-three.”
Daniel frowned. “You’re monitoring me.”
“You requested morning farm status.”
“I didn’t request commentary.”
“You asked whether the feed supply remained adequate.”
“Once.”
“Twice.”
Claire folded her arms. “You two are unbearable.”
Neris’s ears tilted toward Daniel. “Is that criticism?”
“Observation.”
Daniel smiled into his coffee. Breakfast took longer than necessary. No one admitted that either. Daniel made eggs. Neris made toast because she did not trust Daniel to stand near the stove for that long. Claire corrected both of them and made more coffee. ER announced the weather.
The countdown sat on the kitchen tablet.
2 DAYS, 18 HOURS
Daniel tried not to look at it. He looked at it four times during breakfast. Neris looked at it six times. By eight, they had created a list of ordinary jobs rather than departure tasks.
Daniel wrote the jobs on the back of an old feed invoice: waterers, the west-gate latch, woodpile, laundry, workshop cleanup, mineral-supplement inventory, the south fence after snowfall and a loose cupboard hinge.
Claire read the list. “The hinge?”
“It’s loose.”
“How long?”
Daniel thought. “Months.”
“Interesting timing.”
“It needs fixing.”
Neris nodded. “It does.”
Claire looked at both of them. “Fine.”
Daniel folded the list.
“But I’m adding lunch.”
“That isn’t a job.”
“It is when you two are involved.”
The cattle did not care about departure. Daniel appreciated them for that. Mabel especially. Mabel treated the morning exactly like every other morning Daniel had ever known her. She objected to the gate. She objected to Neris. She objected to the existence of a bucket until the bucket contained something she wanted. She also objected to the speed at which it was delivered.
Daniel stood outside the pen with both hands on the support frame.
Neris worked the latch.
“Too slow,” Daniel said.
Neris looked at him. “Mabel has not reached the gate.”
“She’s thinking about it.”
“You cannot know that.”
Daniel pointed. Mabel turned toward the gate.
“See?”
“She is a cow.”
“Exactly.”
Mabel advanced. Neris shifted position.
Daniel said, “Don’t square up to her.”
“I am not.”
“Your shoulders are.”
“My shoulders are attached.”
“Mabel reads confidence as a challenge.”
“How do you know?”
“She’s a cow.”
“That explanation has become circular.”
Mabel reached the gate. Neris stepped aside. Mabel passed. Daniel nodded. Neris looked at him. “You said nothing useful.”
“I supervised.”
“You predicted bovine intention.”
“Skill.”
ER spoke through Neris’s communicator. “Daniel’s historical success at predicting Mabel’s behaviour is seventy-three percent.”
Daniel stared toward Neris’s shoulder. “You’ve been tracking that?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Twenty-nine days.”
Neris’s muzzle shifted.
Daniel looked at her.
“You knew.”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“I suspected.”
Mabel turned her head. Daniel pointed at her. “Don’t encourage him.”
The rest of the morning went like that. There were waterers to check, feed to move and a frozen patch near the south fence, but no crisis, malfunction, hidden metal fatigue or anything that needed saving. Daniel directed only when necessary. Neris did most of the physical work.
At one point, she carried a feed sack past him without asking for help. Two months earlier, he would have taken one end automatically. Now he watched, out of necessity. He had learned. Neris set the sack down.
Daniel said, “You know you carry those wrong.”
She turned. “You are medically prohibited from demonstrating.”
“I can still explain.”
“You have explained.”
“You twist when you lift.”
“I have a tail for balance.”
“That doesn’t make your spine different.”
“It does slightly.”
Neris looked at him. “Anatomically.”
He sighed. “Fine.”
She lifted the next sack exactly the same way.
Daniel watched, then said, “Still wrong.”
Neris’s tail flicked. The day kept refusing to become dramatic. By eleven, Daniel understood why: the ship flew, the corridor was authorized, the farm would continue, the doctor knew and the receiver worked. There was no urgent reason to stay busy, yet they stayed busy anyway.
At noon, Claire found Neris polishing rather than merely cleaning one of Daniel’s old socket sets. Claire stood in the workshop doorway.
“Neris.”
Neris looked up.
“Yes?”
“Why?”
“Surface oxidation.”
“There is barely any.”
Claire looked at Daniel. He was seated at the bench replacing the cupboard hinge pin.
“You’re helping.”
“It was loose.”
“You’ve fixed a cupboard hinge in the workshop.”
“Better tools.”
Claire stepped inside. “Stop.”
Both Daniel and Neris stared at her. Claire pointed at both of them. “Lunch.”
“We’re almost done.”
“You are polishing sockets and repairing furniture that survived three decades.”
Daniel looked at the hinge. “It was annoying.”
Claire’s voice softened. “I know.”
That ended the argument. They ate soup while Claire did actual architectural work at the dining table. Neris occasionally looked over the drawings; Claire explained load transfer in a renovation, Neris called one support structurally unpleasant, and ER agreed with Neris. Daniel refused to comment on the beautifully organized pantry.
Daniel stood at the kitchen counter long enough to make tea and was ordered back into the chair by three different people. Eventually he said: “Does nobody have anything better to do?”
Claire kept typing. “No.”
That answer landed harder than intended. Neris looked at him. ER remained silent. Daniel sat. For a while, only Claire’s keyboard filled the room.
The afternoon light changed slowly across the floor. Nothing happened. Daniel looked at Neris. She was staring through the window at the woods rather than at the tablet or countdown.
He said, “When did this become normal?”
Neris turned. “What?”
He gestured vaguely around the kitchen. “You.”
Her ears tilted. “Me?”
“Here.”
Claire’s typing slowed but did not stop. Daniel looked toward the cupboard. The coffee maker. The chair Neris always used. Her coat hanging by the back door. Her grooming brush on the sideboard because she had left it there after breakfast and never moved it. “When did I stop thinking there’s an alien in my kitchen?”
Neris considered. “Do you not think that?”
“Not first.”
“What do you think first?”
Daniel smiled faintly. “That you’re using my mug.”
Neris looked down. She was holding a different mug; the chipped one was already packed aboard Takuhai. Blue. Slightly too small for her paws. She wrapped both hands around it.
“When did I stop being the alien in the woods?”
Daniel leaned back. “Probably before the market.”
“That early?”
“Maybe.”
“You were still worried I might expose myself.”
“I’m still worried you might expose yourself.”
Neris’s ears moved. Daniel pointed at her. “Not like that.”
Claire made a sound into her hand.
Daniel closed his eyes. “Wonderful.”
Neris looked between them. “You become uncomfortable with some English meanings very quickly.”
“Because English was designed by malicious people.”
ER said, “Historical evidence does not support intentional centralized design.”
Neris smiled. “When did you stop being the local human?”
Daniel looked at her.
“That was what you called me?”
“Internally.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
Neris thought. “Approximately six days.”
Daniel looked offended. “Six?”
“You were dangerous.”
“I brought you coffee.”
“You were an unknown member of an unknown species approaching a disabled ship whose pilot had no functioning communications.”
Daniel considered. “Fair.”
Neris looked toward the window. “I did not know what humans did to unfamiliar people.”
Daniel’s smile faded. “You thought I might hurt you.”
“Yes.”
They had never said it quite like that. “What did you think I was going to do?”
Neris’s tail shifted slowly. “I did not know. I considered that you might report me immediately, attempt capture or theft, become violent from fear or because I was isolated, or leave and return with others.”
Daniel looked at her. “And instead?”
“You offered coffee.”
“That was strategic.”
Neris’s gaze softened. “You were less frightened of me than you should have been.”
Daniel looked at her for a moment. “You were more frightened of me than you let on.”
Her ears lowered. “Yes.”
Daniel reached across the table. Neris gave him her paw. Claire looked back at her laptop. She had become extremely interested in a floor plan. Daniel rubbed his thumb over Neris’s knuckles.
They remembered the early weeks in pieces. Daniel remembered Neris’s expression after her first coffee and continued to insist that she had hated it; Neris maintained that she had merely encountered an unexpectedly aggressive degree of bitterness and adapted with time.
Neris remembered Daniel’s first voluntary entry into Takuhai. Daniel had been half convinced ER might lock the hatch. “I considered it,” ER said, which did nothing to improve the memory.
The rest returned easily enough: contamination concerns, biological uncertainty, scans and the early rules they had written because none of them yet knew what ordinary trust would become. The conversation could laugh at those moments now because the boundaries had worked long enough to become history.
“You came out holding alien equipment.”
“It was a manual lever.”
“I did not know that.”
Daniel considered this. “I thought asking might make you use something else.”
“There was nothing else.” Neris looked at ER.
ER said, “Daniel’s threat assessment during first contact was objectively poor.”
Daniel pointed at the speaker. “Worked out.”
“Survival does not retroactively improve methodology.”
Claire laughed. Daniel looked at her. “You weren’t there.”
“No. Apparently I missed all the sensible decisions.”
They continued through the market, Neris in borrowed clothes, the dog, the first gate repair, the jacket, the mast in the storm, hot chocolate and ER’s earliest jokes. Daniel claimed the first had been terrible; ER produced the exact wording, and it was worse than Daniel remembered. Neris laughed until her tail knocked against the table.
At some point, the recollection stopped feeling casual. They were telling enough of the story without telling all of it. Claire closed her laptop. “What happens after?”
Daniel looked at her. “After what?”
“After all of this.” She gestured between Neris and ER’s speaker.
“Your people know Earth exists, and Earth eventually learns you exist. What happens?”
Neris sat back. “That depends on Earth.”
Claire smiled. “That seems unwise.”
Daniel said, “Accurate, though.”
Neris thought. “Initial formal contact would likely be limited.”
“Government?”
“Governments, scientific bodies, international organizations, perhaps cultural or ethical advisory groups.”
Daniel frowned. “Advisory groups?”
“If contact affects multiple societies, technological systems, belief structures and political relationships, the problem is not merely diplomatic. What would Earth want?”
Neris looked toward Daniel.
“Everything.” Claire laughed.
“I am serious.”
“So am I.”
Neris folded her paws on the table. “Proof and access; scientific exchange; biological and historical knowledge; navigation, energy, medicine, materials, communications, artificial intelligence and propulsion.”
Daniel touched the monitor beneath his shirt. “Nanites.”
The room quieted slightly.
Claire asked: “what happens when people realize they saved his life?”
Neris looked at Daniel. “They will ask for them.”
“And?”
“We cannot simply provide them.”
Claire frowned. “Even if they could save lives?”
“That is why it becomes difficult.”
Daniel looked down. He knew what the nanites had done. He remembered enough of the pain before them. Enough of the med berth afterward. Enough of Neris’s face when she thought he might die.
“Hard call,” he said.
Neris’s ears lowered. “Yes.”
Claire leaned forward. “Explain.”
Neris thought for a moment. “A medical technology can save lives while also changing power structures.”
“How?”
“Who receives it first, controls production or owns access? Can it be weaponized, compelled by governments, restricted by corporations or used for enhancement rather than treatment? Does it alter lifespan, fertility or development? Can it be concealed or used without consent? Technology does not arrive without consequences merely because its intended purpose is benevolent.”
Claire looked at Daniel. He said, “Still hard to tell someone dying that they can’t have it.”
“Yes,” Neris said.
There was no easy answer. That was the point. Claire’s questions turned from ordinary first-contact problems to governments. Separate national negotiations were likely. Offers of military cooperation or exclusive technology access were also likely. Threats were possible.
Neris’s answer to coercion was less dramatic than Daniel expected: Xianglume would withdraw from that negotiation. If Earth governments began fighting over contact itself, the pace of contact would slow rather than reward the conflict.
Claire considered that sensible. Daniel looked at the table. “People are going to lose their minds.” Nobody in the room had evidence strong enough to disagree.
Neris’s ears moved. “Why specifically?”
Daniel and Claire looked at each other. Daniel gestured. “You explain the internet.”
Claire shook her head. “You live here.”
“That doesn’t qualify me.”
ER said, “I can provide a representative model of public response.”
Daniel looked upward. “That sounds dangerous.”
“Initial reactions would likely include disbelief, fear, enthusiasm, conspiracy theories, scientific interest, religious interpretation, political polarization, economic speculation, misinformation, artistic production, commercial exploitation and humour.”
Claire nodded. “Memes.”
“Yes.”
Neris looked puzzled. “Why humour?”
Daniel looked at her. “Because humans are terrible at processing major events without making jokes.”
Claire said, “And merchandise.”
ER added, “Commercial novelty products would likely appear rapidly.”
Daniel looked at Claire. “How rapidly?”
“Twelve hours.”
“Only twelve?”
“I’m being conservative.”
Neris’s ears lifted. “Products depicting mephits?”
Daniel looked at her. “Potentially.”
Claire smiled. “Definitely.”
Neris frowned. “But humans do not know mephits.”
ER said, “Humans have created fictional anthropomorphic animal people extensively.”
Neris looked toward the speaker. “Created?”
“In literature, visual art, animation, games, performance communities and online social spaces.”
Daniel suddenly became interested in his tea. Neris noticed. “There is context you are avoiding.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
Claire was already smiling.
ER continued. “There is an established human subculture focused specifically on anthropomorphic animal characters.”
Neris turned toward Daniel. “Why are you looking at your cup?”
“I’m thirsty.”
“What is the subculture?”
Daniel sighed. “Furries.”
Neris repeated it carefully. “Furries.”
“Yes.”
Neris looked toward ER’s speaker. “What do they do?”
Daniel pointed. “Careful.”
ER answered anyway. “Humans construct artistic personas based on anthropomorphic animals, create costumes representing those identities, attend large gatherings, produce fiction and artwork, and maintain extensive social communities around the practice.”
Neris stared. “They pretend to be people like me.”
“Not specifically mephits,” ER said. “However, there are a statistically significant number of anthropomorphic skunk characters.”
Daniel muttered, “Oh no.”
Neris’s ears rotated toward him. “You know about this.”
“Everybody knows about furries.”
Claire shook her head. “That is not true.”
“Enough people know about furries.”
Neris looked thoughtful. “Do they have tails?”
Daniel closed his eyes. “Sometimes.”
Neris looked behind herself. Her own tail occupied a significant amount of space between chair and wall.
“Poorly proportioned?”
Daniel inhaled tea. Wrongly. He coughed. Claire started laughing. ER answered calmly. “Frequently.”
Neris looked pleased. Daniel recovered. “You cannot judge fake tails by yours.”
“Why?”
“Because yours is ridiculous.”
Neris’s ears lifted. “It is correctly proportioned.”
“Exactly my point.”
Claire looked down into her coffee. “Rule thirty-four.”
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