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The ship's one cook, working printer-loaf and a dwindling feedstock stack after the after-hydroponics died. Quietly the steadiest head on the boat about the food clock: when the crew argue whether to spend the last smuggled spice now or hoard it, Boyd has already decided — half now, half saved — and didn't ask any of them. Her dark, almost-sweet loaf-heel is ship-famous in the small fast way a thing gets famous on a boat with one cook and nowhere to go. The galley-as-social-engine runs through her.