The committee's runner found Soren at the booth an hour after the floor opened.
The reassignment came folded, official, stamped.
Class Z was being moved.
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Off the main exhibition floor.
To a peripheral slot near the service corridors, where the foot traffic thinned and the good sightlines ran out.
The paper called it a rebalancing of exhibition density.
Soren read the real sentence under the official one, the one he'd learned to read all winter.
They were embarrassed.
The servant-role framing had collapsed in front of the delegation, and the crowd around Class Z had kept growing after it collapsed, and a committee that could not control the story wanted the story somewhere fewer people were standing.
Bury the thing you can't file.
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He did not argue with the runner.
You did not argue with a runner, who carried paper and no authority to change it.
He went to the committee room, where the authority was, and he brought Dani's numbers with him.
