The numbers were worse than Marisol had expected.

  Not catastrophic. Not scandalous. Just bad in the way that made spreadsheets feel heavier when you scrolled.

  She stood in the county administrator’s office with her tablet angled slightly downward, as if gravity might help the totals behave. The administrator sat behind his desk, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, reading the same figures in printed form because he trusted paper more when it came to money.

  Overtime hours.Backfill labor.Deferred maintenance converted into emergency rates.

  Four weeks.

  “That can’t be right,” he said calmly.

  “It is,” Marisol replied.

  He flipped a page. “We’re paying more now than before the shutdown.”

  “Yes,” she said. “That’s how manual compensation works.”

  He leaned back in his chair. Not angry. Just tired. “So we shut down a system because it made people nervous, and in the process we burned through a month of contingency funds.”

  Marisol didn’t argue.

  He tapped the page. “This is why we bought them.”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  A pause.

  “And yesterday?” he asked.

  Marisol brought up the log summary. “One unit. One route. Clean run. No anomalies.”

  “No overtime?” he asked.

  “None,” she said. “South-side crew finished on time.”

  He exhaled slowly. “Of course they did.”

  Howard watched the meeting from the far end of the conference table, hands folded, eyes on the screen but attention on the room. Jake sat beside him, trying not to look like he was waiting for a verdict. Trent leaned against the wall, already aware of how this was going to go.

  The administrator looked up. “So tell me why this isn’t the obvious answer.”

  Jake inhaled.

  Howard spoke first.

  “Because one clean run doesn’t prove coordination,” he said. “It proves stability.”

  The administrator nodded. “And coordination costs money too.”

  “Yes,” Howard said.

  The administrator turned to Marisol. “How much?”

  She didn’t hesitate. “Less than overtime. Less than burnout. Less than attrition.”

  The administrator grimaced. “Attrition always sneaks up on you.”

  “Yes,” Marisol said.

  He looked back at Howard. “What’s your concern?”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Howard didn’t rush it. “That once we restore, expectations return faster than safeguards.”

  The administrator considered that. “That’s already happening.”

  Howard nodded. “Yes.”

  Jake blinked. He’d expected more resistance.

  The administrator slid the papers into a neat stack. “Here’s what I care about.”

  He tapped the stack. “People. Money. Predictability. In that order.”

  He looked around the room. “Right now we’re failing on all three.”

  Silence.

  Then he looked at Howard. “You said the next step was coordination.”

  “Yes,” Howard said.

  The administrator nodded. “Good. Because if we’re paying overtime anyway, I’d rather pay for machines doing what they were purchased to do.”

  Jake grinned before he could stop himself.

  Howard glanced at him.

  Jake neutralized his face.

  By mid-afternoon, the decision had filtered through the building.

  Not as an announcement. Not as a victory.

  As scheduling.

  Routes were reassigned. Coverage was mapped. A small note appeared at the bottom of the budget worksheet: Restoration phase — monitored.

  The bunnies didn’t care.

  Two more units were selected. Not the favorites. Not the ones people named first. Just reliable ones with clean service histories.

  Howard reviewed the coordination plan carefully.

  “No overlapping routes,” he said.

  “Already accounted for,” Marisol replied.

  “No dynamic reassignment,” he added.

  “Static only,” she said.

  Jake raised a hand. “Just to be clear, static means—”

  “It means boring,” Trent said.

  Jake nodded. “Got it.”

  Howard finished reviewing the logs. “We proceed tomorrow.”

  Jake blinked. “Tomorrow?”

  “Yes,” Howard said.

  Jake laughed softly. “Huh.”

  It felt faster than he’d expected.

  The next morning, the yard looked busier without looking louder.

  Three bunnies moved along separate routes, each doing exactly what it had been assigned. No improvisation. No shortcuts. No awareness of the others beyond collision avoidance that never triggered because the routes had been planned by someone who understood space.

  Jake watched from the fence, arms crossed.

  “It’s weird,” he said.

  Howard stood beside him. “What is?”

  “It’s… working,” Jake said. “And nobody’s making a big deal about it.”

  Howard nodded. “That’s usually how it works.”

  Marisol walked by, phone pressed to her ear. “Yes, I see the numbers. No, we’re not expanding today. Tomorrow we’ll review.”

  She hung up and smiled faintly. “Finance.”

  Jake snorted. “They move fast when it’s their money.”

  “Yes,” Howard said.

  Jake frowned. “So now that we’ve started restoring, we’re kind of committed, right?”

  Howard didn’t answer immediately.

  “We’re obligated,” he said finally. “Committed implies momentum.”

  Jake considered that. “And obligation implies… paperwork.”

  Howard smiled thinly.

  By lunch, the overtime chart had flattened.

  By end of day, no one stayed late.

  The yard closed on time.

  Jake helped lock up, glancing back at the bunnies lined neatly in their charging bays.

  “You know,” he said, “this is probably how it was supposed to feel the first time.”

  Howard paused. “The first time was different.”

  Jake tilted his head. “How?”

  Howard looked at the machines. “We were excited.”

  Jake nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

  Howard met his eyes. “Now we’re responsible.”

  Jake swallowed. “That’s… less fun.”

  “Yes,” Howard said.

  “But better,” Jake added.

  Howard nodded. “Much.”

  As they walked toward the exit, Jake glanced at the clipboard near the south side. Someone had added another line beneath yesterday’s note.

  Restoration scheduled. Monitor costs.

  Jake smiled.

  “Back on the clock,” he said.

  Howard keyed the door shut. “We always were.”

  They left the yard quieter than they’d entered it.

  The machines stayed.

  The work continued.

  And for the first time since the shutdown, the county wasn’t wondering if it could afford the bunnies.

  It was wondering how it ever afforded not to.