Page 26

The river turned out to be obnoxiously beautiful.

Trees hung low around the banks like leafy curtains.

The water sparkled as it weaved around smooth stones, its gentle rush the only soundtrack save for the birds and Max’s unnecessary narration about “primal cleansing rituals.” Joy was already wading into the water, laughing as she splashed Mia, who was trying and failing to hold her phone recorder above her head while dodging attacks.

The jocks, naturally, dove straight in like sea lions in a splash zone.

Someone slipped and face-planted with a loud sploosh, followed by applause.

It was all very National Geographic: High School Edition.

I took a seat on the nearest large rock, wrapped my towel around me, and stared dramatically into the distance like a forest prince exiled from his homeland.

And then Ethan took off his shirt.

Every part of me tensed.

I looked away instantly. No chance. I wasn’t going down that visual rabbit hole today. Not in the middle of nature. Not when I was already emotionally fragile from sleeping upright next to a window that could break anytime and dreaming about squirrels robbing me.

“Clark!” Max called from midstream. “You coming in or what?”

I gave him a thumbs down like a Roman emperor at a gladiator match. “Nope.”

“Why not?” Joy chimed in. “It’s warm!”

“Because this,” I said, gesturing at the gently flowing river like I was presenting a cursed artifact, “is how horror stories begin. Skinny nerd goes into the woods, joins the cool kids in water, and bam—dragged down by an angry water demon. I’m not giving the local cryptid a free meal.”

Max cackled. “Clark, it’s literally just water.”

“It’s never just water, Max.”

Joy narrowed her eyes. “You look too comfortable out there.”

I sensed danger. “Joy. Don’t you da—”

SPLOOSH.

A wave of ice-cold river water smacked my legs with the precision of a missile. I yelped and scrambled backward on the rock like a frightened cat.

“JOY!” I screeched, checking if my shoes were soaked. They were. “I liked being dry!”

She just grinned like she had done the world a favor. “Now you match the vibe.”

As I debated the ethics of pushing her deep down into the river via telekinesis, Shun, sitting a few rocks away like a quiet forest witch, blinked at her phone and frowned.

“Hey,” she said, holding it up, “I think we have network again.”

Buzz.

My phone vibrated so hard in my hoodie pocket I thought it might combust. Notifications exploded onto my screen like a digital apocalypse: missed calls, texts, and—to top it all off—one semi-aggressive email from my freelance client asking about a deadline I might have ghosted.

I winced at the email, but before I could do anything about it, my mom's face popped on the screen.

Incoming video call.

Great.

I hesitated, but there was no escape. If I didn’t answer, they’d call again. And again. And again. Not to mention they already had. Thrice.

Sighing, I tapped the screen, forcing a smile as my parents’ faces appeared.

“Clark!” Mom beamed, practically pressing her face against the camera. “There’s my boy!”

Dad, slightly more reserved but still smiling, nodded in greeting. “Hey, kiddo.”

“You didn’t pick up the last three calls,” Mom added, voice lined with mild concern. “We thought something happened.”

“Yeah, sorry,” I said quickly. “Network issues. We’re kinda… remote.”

They squinted in unison.

“Remote?” Dad echoed, eyes narrowing. “Clark… are you in a forest?”

Mom leaned closer to the screen, baffled. “That’s definitely a tree. That’s several trees. Clark, are you lost in a forest?”

“What? No!” I half-laughed. “It’s just, uh… nature stuff. Documentary location scouting.”

“Scouting? Without adult supervision?” Mom asked, tone rising.

“We have supervision,” I lied. “Mr. Dax is… somewhere. Asleep. But totally aware.”

Dad blinked. “Asleep and aware?”

“Duality,” I said with a straight face.

Mom stared at me. “You’re being weird.”

“You look… different,” she added, narrowing her eyes. “Are you smiling more than usual?”

“No,” I lied instantly.

Dad raised an eyebrow. “You sure? You seem happier.”

I forced a neutral expression. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Mom gasped dramatically. “Is it a girl?”

I choked on my own breath. “What?! No! What—where did that even—what?”

Dad chuckled. “Your mother’s been watching too many romance dramas.”

Mom ignored him, eyes locked on me like a hawk. “You’re acting strange. Is it someone special?”

“No one is special, Mom,” I deadpanned.

“Hm.” She didn’t look convinced. “You’d tell us if you had a secret romance, right?”

Dad smirked. “More importantly, do we approve of this hypothetical person?”

I groaned. “There is no one to approve of. Can we move on?”

Mom sighed, clearly disappointed. “Fine. But we’re keeping an eye on you.”

For a flickering second, I thought of mentioning our shared trauma—my stepdad—and how I felt like he was still haunting me. But I didn’t. The last thing I wanted was to steal that smile from her face, so I just grinned and kept the conversation going.

I muttered something about paranoia under my breath, then redirected the conversation to something safer—like how our documentary was totally going well (it wasn’t) and how everything was under control (it wasn’t).

Then at some point mid-conversation, because nature hates me, we lost signal.

“Hello…. hello.” Nothing.

But to my relief, I felt like I had just survived a full-blown interrogation.

And yet, the worst part?

The first thought that popped into my head after the conversation was, What if they’re right? What if I am acting differently?

I shook my head, pushing the thought away.

I had bigger things to worry about. Like Ethan’s birthday. For a second, I let myself watch him wade like a mermaid in disguise. I still had no idea what to do about his birthday.

I let out a deep breath and sank down onto the grassy riverbank, the cool blades tickling my arms as I leaned back. The water rippled beside me, calm and indifferent, while my mind drifted—of all things—back to Ethan’s birthday and the impossible “What the hell do I get him?” dilemma.

Maybe something simple. A river stone. A stick of gum. Or his favorite snack—the one that almost got us arrested last week. That felt weirdly appropriate.

I was still weighing the pros and cons of snack-based gifting when a phone buzzed beside me on a picnic blanket.

Ethan’s phone.

I glanced at it out of instinct, ready to look away. Not my business.

But then the screen lit up, and the sender’s name caught my eye.

Dad.

I froze.

Ethan never talked about his dad since the day of the accident. If someone brought him up, Ethan would sidestep the subject like it was a sinkhole—smooth, practiced, evasive.

Curiosity tugged at me, subtle but persistent.

Then the message preview appeared.

"I need to see you one last time before I... die."

The words hit like a stone to the gut. Cold. Sudden. Final.

I stared, the sound of the river dulling under the weight of that sentence.

Then, slowly, I looked toward the river trail, where Ethan had wandered off a moment ago, barefoot.

And just like that, I had no idea what to do.