Finn swept the same corner of the clearing three times before he admitted it was already clean. He stepped back and studied the path, the fire pit, the steps of the nearest cabin. Everything looked good, but good wasn't enough. If he wanted people to notice, he needed to do more than they expected — more than anyone thought possible in a single day. He walked to the fox's den at the edge of the clearing and ducked inside. His broom leaned against one wall, his bucket sat in the corner, and a scrap of bark on the ground held his plan scratched in charcoal: morning paths, midday common areas, afternoon cabins. He crossed out the old route and drew a new one. If he skipped his usual rest and worked through lunch, he could add the whole north section. His hand cramped from gripping the charcoal, but when he finished, the new route covered twice as much ground. He stood and grabbed his broom. Today, they would see what he could do.

Finn reached the north section just after noon, his arms sore from the morning's work. He stopped at the edge and stared. Broken crates spilled rotted straw across the ground. Torn sacks hung from posts, their contents scattered in the dirt. A tipped barrel leaked something dark and sticky. He pulled the cloth rag from his belt and knelt beside the nearest mess. The rag soaked through in seconds, still barely denting the sticky pool. He wrung it out and tried again, but the stain had already set into the dirt. He stood and looked at the whole section, then down at the thin scrap of cloth in his hand. Days. This would take days, not hours. His chest tightened as he counted the crates, the torn sacks, the overturned supplies. He could finish his route and pretend he'd never seen this, let someone else find it tomorrow. But then he pictured the man's nod, the one he'd earned last week for finishing the paths. That nod meant someone had noticed. If he walked away now, the next time that man passed through here, he'd see what Finn had left behind. Finn shoved the rag back in his belt and grabbed the nearest crate. He couldn't fix everything today, but he could make it better than he'd found it. He started dragging crates to the side, clearing a path through the center. When the sun dipped low, his hands were raw and his back ached, but the path was clear and the worst of the mess was sorted into piles. It wasn't done, but it was honest work, and tomorrow he'd come back to finish.