Page 23

TORACK

T here’s sawdust in the air and tension in my shoulders.

Old habits. Even after everything—after the panic, the search, the glade—I’m still moving.

Still walking site to site, pretending like the creak of boots on gravel and the weight of a clipboard can stop my brain from spinning.

As if counting fences and checking spell wards can drown out the memory of Lillian whispering, “Maybe if I were better, you’d smile more. ”

That memory’s carved into my spine now,and I know I can’t keep going like this.

This camp was supposed to be a place of healing. A legacy for Lillian. A home for others like us: outcasts, half-bloods, kids with missing parents and bruised dreams. But I’ve been holding onto it with clenched fists and gritted teeth. Turning it into something it was never meant to be.

Controlled. Guarded. Safe, but suffocating.

Julie’s the one who’s made it bloom.

She’s the one who talks to the interns like they matter. Who rewrote the outreach programs so goblin kids and elf parents finally show up to the same events. Who makes my daughter laugh.

I know what I need to do.

By midday, I find Lillian under the platform deck, digging through what appears to be a suspiciously glittery trap made from twigs, moss, and one of my socks.

“What in the world are you doing?” I ask, arms crossed.

She jerks her head up. There’s a streak of mud across her forehead like war paint, and her eyes gleam with mischief.

“Building a trap.”

“For what?”

“A cloud frog,” she says, dead serious. “He goes ribbit but also floats. Like a frog balloon.”

“There’s no such thing.”

She gasps like I just told her cookies are illegal.

“Just because you’ve never seen one doesn’t mean it’s not real.”

I grunt. “Pretty sure that’s how I justified hiring Renault.”

She ignores me. “I need another anchor rock. And bait.”

“Bait?”

“Duh. What do frogs love?”

“Water?”

“No. Snacks.”

“What kind of snack?”

“Marshmallows, obviously.” I blink. “We’re luring a potentially magical frog with campfire sugar bombs.”

“Exactly. Can you go get some while I reinforce the perimeter?” I open my mouth. Close it again.

“Are you giving me an assignment?”

“You said you had time.”

Dammit. I did.

Twenty minutes later, I’m crouched beside her, elbow-deep in mud, applying marshmallow ‘fences’ around the trap while she sings some kind of summoning chant that sounds suspiciously like a pop song from the camp talent show.

She waves a twig wand over the bait. “Now we wait.”

“For what?”

“The frog!” she exclaims with exhaustion.

“Right.” I lean back. “What if we catch something else?”

She shrugs. “Then we interview it and release it.”

“Interview it.”

She nods. “All creatures have rights.”

I stare at her for a beat. “You’ve been hanging out with Julie too much.”

She grins. “Julie says imagination is the key to empathy.”

“She would.”

We sit in silence for a few minutes, watching the bait.

Nothing happens, obviously, but she leans against my side like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“Did you have imagination when you were little?” she asks.

I glance at her. “I used to pretend I was a mountain.”

She snorts. “That’s not imaginative.”

“I was very committed. I didn’t move for three hours. My mother thought I’d been cursed.”

Lillian laughs so hard she almost knocks over the trap.

We spend the next hour rebuilding it twice, baiting it with everything from blueberries to a single sock, and arguing about whether fairies would sabotage our mission because of ‘internal frog politics.’

By the time Julie finds us, we’re both covered in leaves and holding hands like secret agents waiting for coded instructions.

“You two look suspicious,” she says, raising an eyebrow.

“We’re on frog watch,” Lillian whispers. I nod solemnly.

“Cloud frog. Very rare.” Julie blinks.

“Of course. Carry on.”

As she walks away, I hear her mutter, “That man used to run battlefronts.”

Lillian grins up at me. “You’re fun when you’re dirty.”

“Don’t tell HR.”

She throws a pinecone at me.

Later that evening, I’m chopping vegetables for dinner when Lillian barrels into the kitchen holding three hair ties and a hairbrush like she’s carrying a magical relic.

“Can Julie braid my hair?”

I glance at the clock. “You’re supposed to be getting ready for bed.”

“This is getting ready for bed,” she counters.

“You want me to do it?”

“You always make my braids crooked. Julie does the swoopy ones.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Swoopy?”

She nods solemnly. “Like fairies. You don’t know how.”

Fair enough.

“Go ask her, then.”

She’s gone before I finish wiping my hands. And five minutes later, Julie appears in the doorway, barefoot and smiling.

“Reporting for hair duty.”

“She’s got high standards,” I warn.

Julie steps inside, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. “I thrive under pressure.”

We set Lillian on a stool in front of the fireplace. She chatters the whole time—about spell-charmed frogs and how Mr. Groth sneezed so loud he scared off the nymph who runs the juice stand. Julie listens like everything matters.

Every word.

She parts Lillian’s hair with practiced fingers.

“I used to braid my cousin’s hair every weekend,” she says. “It was the only time she sat still.”

“Do I have to sit still?” Lillian asks, squirming.

“Only if you want it to look amazing.”

She goes rigid immediately.

I watch them. The ease, the rhythm, and something tight inside my chest lets go.

When Julie’s done, Lillian hops down and runs to the mirror.

“Best one yet!” she declares, spinning. “Can I sleep in it?”

Julie laughs. “Sure, if you sleep like a statue.” She turns to me. “You want to tuck her in, or should I?”

“Let’s both do it.”

Lillian curls up under her moss-green quilt, the one embroidered with fireflies. Her braid fans across the pillow like a crown. She blinks up at me.

“Are you gonna be home more?” she asks softly.

I kneel beside her bed. “Yeah. I am.”

She nods once. “Good. ’Cause I like it when we’re all here.”

Julie tucks the quilt tighter. And I look at her, really look at Julie Wren.

She’s not just helping me run this camp.

She’s helping me build a life.