A little over three hours later, Zoe hung up the phone with the nitrile glove supplier, feeling completely happy and proud. At eight-oh-nine that morning, she’d walked into a disorganized, poorly-run and -managed tattoo place, with a storage room lacking any kind of back-up supplies and a client schedule smudged with coffee-cup rings and reeking of onions. She’d looked around, sighed, shrugged off her jean jacket, and buckled down.
After a solid morning of work, and a pot of coffee, and some focus and the speed-reading of a whole lot of additional paperwork, Zoe felt comfortably on top of things at Blue Dragon Ink. There was still a lot to get done, of course, but she felt on much steadier ground, at least, had a sense of the bigger picture. She wasn’t happy that so much had slipped throu
