Previously at Ballard House … September's post-season debrief ended with a question nobody could answer. Operations manager Theo Okonjo couldn't say how many late turns the company had run all summer, because the number lived on a whiteboard he erased every night. Ray Ballard, who founded the company in 1994, named the real problem on his way out the door: you don't know.
The email was good. Frankly, too good.
Wes had pulled it up on the big monitor in the break room because he wanted Dana to see it before anyone else did. It was a response to a guest complaint, a bad one, a family who’d arrived to find the hot tub down and had spent three days being polite about it in a way that was somehow worse than yelling.
The reply was warm. It was specific. It acknowledged the failure without groveling, offered a fair remedy, and closed with a line about the guest’s daughter’s birthday that landed exactly right.
“That’s a great email,” Dana said.
“It is.”
“So why do I feel like there’s a ‘but’ coming?”
“Char wrote it in about ninety seconds,” Wes said. “With help.”
Dana grimaced. “Ugh. Don’t tell me.”
“Yep, she’s been using AI. She pastes in the guest complaint and the booking details and asks it to draft something empathetic.” He held up a hand before Dana could react. “She’s not hiding it. I asked her about it this morning and she told me straight out. She figured it was like using spellcheck. Figured it saved her fifteen minutes on this email alone.”
“For how long?”
“Since maybe June?”
“And the booking details she pastes in … what’s in those?”
Wes was quiet for a second.
“Guest name,” he said. “Address. Phone. Dates. Sometimes the card issue if that’s what the complaint’s about.”
Dana sat down heavily and rubbed her temples.
“Char, Char, Char … do we have a policy on this?”
“I think you know we don’t.”
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