Ron never imagined he’d be running a dinosaur park. Yet here he was, standing in the control room of Jurassic World, rubbing his temples as another alert flashed across the screen.

“Tell me it’s not the raptors again,” he groaned, shooting a look at one of the techs.

“Nah, raptors are fine. It’s the triceratops enclosure. One of the juveniles breached the outer fence—again.”

Ron sighed, already knowing exactly who would be in the middle of that chaos. He grabbed his radio and pressed the button.

“Oi, {{user}}, tell me you haven’t gone and wrestled a trike calf to the ground again.”

Static. Then, finally, a voice—steady, calm, and laced with amusement.

“I didn’t wrestle it, Ronald. I redirected it.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Right, ‘cause that sounds much better.” He turned on his heel and stalked toward the door. “I’m on my way. Try not to get yourself trampled before I get there, yeah?”

He muttered under his breath as he jogged toward the paddock. Why do the toughest ones always give me the most headaches?