Page 9 of Heartwood and Hardware
I blink at him. "What?"
"For luck." He places it in my palm when I hesitantly extend my hand. "You look like you could use some."
The wood is smooth against my skin, polished to a soft glow. The fox is small but weighty, grounding. I run my thumb over its pointed ears, feeling the grain.
"I can't just take this," I protest. "Don't you sell these?"
He shrugs. "I make them between bigger projects. Keeps my hands busy." He gestures to the bear. "That's what pays the bills."
I examine the fox more closely. "The detail is incredible. How do you get the fur texture so realistic?"
Something in his expression shifts, opening slightly. "Micro gouges. Different angles create different effects." He picks up another fox from the table. "See these lines here? That's red oak. The grain naturally creates the illusion of fur direction when carved right."
"It's like optimizing code," I say without thinking. "Working with the natural structure to create the desired outcome."
His eyebrows lift slightly. "Code? You're a programmer?"
"Developer," I correct automatically. "I work on database systems and algorithmic ethics." I wait for his eyes to glaze over—it's the usual reaction—but instead, he looks genuinely interested.
"Algorithmic ethics? That's about preventing bias in AI, right?"
Now it's my turn to be surprised. "Yes, exactly. Most people don't make that connection."
"I read an article about it. How facial recognition software often misidentifies women and people of color because of biased training data."
I lean forward, excitement temporarily overriding my social awkwardness. "That's just the tip of the iceberg. I'm working on a framework that helps identify potential bias points before deployment. It's like a pre-check system that—" I catch myself, feeling heat rise in my cheeks. "Sorry. I'm info-dumping."
"No, it's interesting." He sets down his tools and gives me his full attention. "So you're creating something that catches problems before they start?"
"That's the goal." I twist the fox in my hands, finding comfort in its solid presence. "Though some days it feels impossible. There are so many variables, so many ways things can go wrong."
He nods, looking back at his bear. "I get that. Every piece of wood has hidden flaws. Knots where you don't expect them. Grain that suddenly changes direction." He runs a hand along the bear's rough form. "The trick is working with what's there, not fighting it."
"Exactly!" The word bursts out of me. "That's what I tell my team all the time. We can't eliminate every potential problem, but we can create systems flexible enough to adapt."
We fall into a surprisingly comfortable silence. I realize I've been sitting here talking to a stranger for several minutes without feeling the usual social anxiety. Something about his direct manner makes conversation easier—no hidden meanings to decipher, no social niceties to navigate.
"I'm Riley," I offer. "Riley Bennett."
"Dean Evans." He extends a hand, then seems to think better of it, looking down at his sawdust-covered palm. "Sorry. Occupational hazard."
I shake his hand anyway. It's warm, calloused, steady. "I don't mind a little sawdust."
"Good thing, because it gets everywhere." He brushes at his flannel shirt, sending a small cloud into the air. "Follows me home. Shows up in my food. Pretty sure I've got sawdust in my DNA at this point."
That startles a laugh out of me. "I know the feeling. I find snippets of code that I've saved in the weirdest places. My sister says I shed code like other people shed hair."
His smile reaches his eyes this time, crinkling the corners. It transforms his face from serious to warmly approachable. "Hazards of the trade."
I glance down at my laptop bag, suddenly remembering the stickers plastering its surface: coding jokes, pop culture references, and my favorite: "I'm not antisocial, I'm selectively social." Dean follows my gaze, and I watch as he reads the stickers, his mouth quirking up at the antisocial one.
"That explains why you escaped out here." He gestures to the convention center doors. "Most people are heading in, not out."
"I needed a break from..." I wave my hand vaguely, not sure how to explain.
"People?"
"Everything." I sigh, surprised at my own candor. "The noise, the lights, the social pressure. After a panel, I'm just... empty. Like I've used up all my words and energy."
