Page 66 of Puck Your Friend

She slows. “How old are you?”

It takes me far too long to understand what she’s saying. “Sixteen next week.”

“Shit.” She doesn’t say anything else or explain. Her grip tightens, and we walk faster.

I stumble. My knees buckle, and I barely catch myself. The woods spin. The air smells wrong, too sour, like something rotting under the leaves.

Wait, it’s not the woods, it’s her. It’s coming off her hard, and it takes everything in me to swallow the puke climbing my throat.

I turn to look back. I can’t see the clearing anymore, but I know they’re there.I need them.

My insides twists again, tighter this time. The tears I’ve been holding back blur the trail.

My breath catches in my throat. Something inside me is unraveling and I can’t stop it like I have in the past.

We reach the nurse’s cabin. My dress clings to me and the humidity in the air isn’t helping. The counselor knocks hard and pushes the door open without waiting for the nurse to answer.

Inside, the nurse looks up from her laptop. She’s older, eyes tired behind wire-framed glasses. Her gaze flicks over me, then settles on the counselor’s grip.

“She needs to be scanned. She’s presenting.”

What? That’s news to me. There’s no way I’m presenting.

The nurse nods. No surprise on her face. She points to the small examination table in the corner. “Sit down. What’s your name and date of birth?”

I climb onto the table and grimace again. These cramps are so bad. My period isn’t supposed to start for another week or two, but I’m only a year into having it, so maybe the cycle has changed. That can happen. “Francesca Darian, 07/28/98.”

The counselor stays close, hovering like I might bolt.

Behind her desk, the nurse clicks on her laptop before she stands and brings it over to me. “Can you confirm this is the correct information?”

I glance over the info. It’s hard to comprehend the words on the screen as they blur, but I see the right info for my parents.

Taking the laptop back to her desk, she grabs a sleek silver scanner from a drawer. Bringing it over, she pushes a button and it hums to life.

I stare at it and my stomach flips.

“Tilt your head to the side and move your hair off your neck.”

My hands tremble as I move my hair and allow her access. The scanner passes over my neck. It flashes red.

I flinch, not liking the look of that. “What’s that mean?”

The nurse’s mouth tightens. “You’re presenting as an Omega and going into your first heat.” She sighs. “Your file says your birthday’s next week, so you’re early, but not by much.”

Omega.

The word slams into me. I shake my head. “No. That’s not possible. There are no Omegas in my family. Run it again.”

She gives me a pitying look. “Hun, the scanner is never wrong. I’ve never had a false reading in my thirty years of being a NP. We’ll call your parents. You’ll need to leave camp. We’re not equipped for your kind here.”

She sighs. “Since your family isn’t familiar with Omegas, it’s probably best for you to be taken to a heat clinic to get help with your first one.”

Your kind.As if I’m less than human.

The counselor steps back toward the door. “I’ll pack your things. It’s best if you don’t walk around camp, there’s too many young Alphas here. You could send them into a rut.”

I lurch upright. “I need to say goodbye to my friends.”