Page 15

Percy

D awn isn’t my favorite time of day.

Actually, scratch that—dawn isn’t even on my list of acceptable times to be conscious.

Yet here I am, stumbling after Ruby Wolfhart’s perky ass—her wolf ears fully on display—through dewy undergrowth while my brother’s trail behind me, like we’re some dysfunctional conga line of pigs.

Hamilton looks ready to commit murder, I’m calculating how many cups of coffee I’ll need to feel myself again, and Prescott—the traitor—is practically skipping.

This is what happens when you let a wolf convince three pigs to go “commune with nature.”

Spoiler alert: nature involves bugs, dirt, and an alarming absence of espresso machines.

“Keep up, Porkwell’s!” Ruby calls over her shoulder, not even slightly winded despite the steep incline we’re currently scaling. “We’ve got eight miles to cover before lunch!”

“Eight?” I wheeze. “You said five yesterday.”

She flashes a wolfish grin that’s entirely too smug. “Did I? My mistake.”

Behind me, Hamilton is huffing and puffing and muttering something that could practically make our mother resurrect from the dead to smack us, and I silently second the sentiment.

I should be in my bed right now, or at least nursing a cappuccino in my kitchen. Yes, it’s beautiful, yes I did love my treck last time, but I didn’t start my day while the moon was still out. That’s just plain idiocy.

“This is amazing!” Prescott chirps, pulling alongside me with irritating energy. My youngest brother’s glasses are slightly fogged, but his eyes are bright with enthusiasm. “Did you know this forest has one of the most diverse ecosystems in the region? I was reading about it last night after—”

“Stop. Talking.” Hamilton’s voice cuts through the morning air like a chainsaw. He’s ten paces behind us, the designer hiking boots he insisted on wearing already caked with mud; expression murderous. “It’s too early for your nature documentary narration.”

“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” Ruby calls back without slowing her pace.

I catch Hamilton’s eye and almost laugh at the pure affront on his face. My older brother, CEO extraordinaire—used to sleeping on memory foam in Egyptian cotton sheets—is in the wilderness, with bugs.

If looks could kill, Ruby would be a wolf-skin rug by now.

“This is a waste of time,” Hamilton grumbles as he catches up. “We could be reviewing the property from satellite imagery in the comfort of our office.”

Ruby stops so abruptly that I nearly collide with her. She turns, and there’s something dangerous in her eyes—something primal that makes my throat go dry.

“That,” she says, pointing to Hamilton’s phone, “is exactly why we’re here. You can’t understand what you’re about to bulldoze without seeing it, smelling it, feeling it under your feet. Especially when you’re adamant on turning it into another Shit-town.”

“Shiftown,” Hamilton replies.

“That’s what I said,” Ruby replies sweetly.

For once, Hamilton doesn’t have a snappy comeback. He just glares at her, tucking his phone away.

“Whatever,” he mumbles.

We continue in blessed silence for the next half hour. The forest gradually wakes around us—birds start their morning chatter, sunlight filters through the canopy in golden shafts, and the air fills with the scent of pine, earth and something else I can’t quite name, but it feels ancient and alive.

I catch myself breathing deeper, drawing in lungfuls of the crisp air. It’s… nice.

“Look,” Prescott whispers suddenly, pointing to our right.

A doe and her fawn stand frozen in a clearing, watching us with dark, liquid eyes. We all stop, even Hamilton. For a moment, just the five of us exist in perfect stillness. Then the doe flicks her tail, and both deer bound away in graceful leaps.

“Wow,” I breathe.

“You don’t see that in boardrooms,” Ruby says quietly.

She’s right. There's something here that no blueprint could capture, no 3D rendering could simulate.

It’s wild.

Untamed.

Real in a way that makes my carefully constructed world feel a little too flat.

We hike for another hour, and I notice something strange happening to all of us.

Prescott is the first to show visible changes—his wavy hair can’t quite hide the pointed ears that have emerged, twitching at every forest sound. Then his tail—pink and curly—pokes out from beneath his hiking shirt, wagging with undisguised joy.

My own ears start to tingle next. I reach up and feel them—longer, pointed, definitely not human anymore. It’s been years since I’ve let my animal side show unintentionally.

In the city, we keep it hidden, except for our tusks. Controlled. Professional. But out here…

“Your ears are out,” Hamilton hisses at me.

“So?” I shoot back. “We’re in the middle of nowhere. Who’s going to see? The squirrels?”

“It’s unprofessional.”

“We’re hiking, not presenting quarterly projections.”

Hamilton starts to respond, then stops, nostrils flaring slightly. Despite his protests, I notice his breathing has deepened too, taking in the forest scents with an intensity that’s more pig than human. His jaw relaxes, shoulders lowering from their perpetual business posture.

Ruby notices too. She catches my eye and gives me a knowing look that says, See? Told you.

We stop by a small stream for water, and Prescott—now sporting a full pig snout alongside his ears and tail—splashes happily in the shallows.

“Prescott, for God’s sake,” Hamilton calls, but there’s less edge to his voice than before.

I sit on a fallen log, watching sunlight dapple the forest floor. The development plans flash through my mind—the buildings we’d sketched, the roads we’d mapped, the trees we’d marked for removal.

Something uncomfortable twists in my chest.

“You’re quiet,” Ruby says, settling beside me.

“Just thinking.”

“Dangerous pastime.”

“So I’ve been told.” I glance at her. “Is this working? Your little nature therapy session?”

She shrugs, but there’s a hint of smugness in the gesture. “You tell me, Porkwell. Your ears are out, you haven’t checked your phone in forty minutes, and you just watched a butterfly for a full minute without blinking.”

“I did not—”

“Yeah, you did. It was almost cute, in a pathetic city-boy way.”

I should be annoyed, but instead, I find myself laughing. “You’re really something, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told,” she echoes, standing and dusting off her pants. “Come on, Piglet. Three more miles to go before we arrive.”

As we continue our trek, I glance at Hamilton again.

My ever-controlled brother is… different. He hasn’t sprouted ears or a tail like Prescott and me, but there’s a subtle shift in how he moves—more fluid, less rigid.

At one point, he pauses to examine a cluster of mushrooms, curiosity replacing his usual calculated assessment.

“Pretty incredible, isn’t it?” I say, coming alongside him.

Hamilton straightens immediately, as though caught doing something inappropriate. “It’s… unexpected,” he admits grudgingly. “The biodiversity is more extensive than the environmental impact reports suggested.”

Classic Hamilton—turning wonder into data points. But I don’t miss how his eyes linger on the forest canopy or how he inhales deeply when he thinks no one’s watching.

Prescott bounds ahead with Ruby, chattering excitedly about something technological—probably figuring out how to blend his love of gadgets with this newfound appreciation for wilderness. His tail hasn’t stopped wagging since it sprouted.

I’m glad we came.

There’s something happening to all of us out here, away from concrete and glass and deadlines. Something I hadn’t anticipated when I designed our development plans for Wolfstone, even the new, eco-friendly version.

As we crest a particularly steep hill, the view opens up before us—rolling hills covered in vibrant green, a silver ribbon of river cutting through the valley, mountains rising majestically in the distance. It’s breathtaking.

My architect’s brain immediately starts cataloging the landscape—assessing grade changes, identifying natural building platforms, calculating optimal sun angles for energy efficiency. It’s how I’ve been trained to see the world: as a canvas awaiting human improvement.

But something else is happening, too. The longer I look, the more I see how perfectly everything already fits together.

The way the river has carved its path through the valley over millennia.

How the trees cluster differently based on subtle changes in elevation; the natural circulation patterns created by the contours of the land.

Nature has already designed this place with an elegance I could never match, no matter how many awards line my office. My buildings, even the “sustainable” ones, would be impositions here—foreign objects disrupting patterns established over centuries.

“This,” Ruby says softly, “is what you want to replace with condos and parking lots.”

For once, none of us has a ready answer.

Not even Hamilton.

I take a deep breath, seeing the landscape differently now—not as space to be utilized, but as something already perfect in its wild design.

The thought is as unsettling as it is beautiful.

Hamilton seems similarly affected. There’s something almost contemplative in his expression as he surveys the valley. It’s probably the closest thing to wonder I’ve ever seen on my brother’s face.

The moment is shattered when a squirrel suddenly darts across the path, making a beeline straight for Hamilton.

Before any of us can react, it scales his expensive hiking pants, perches momentarily on his shoulder, stuffs what appears to be an acorn into his shirt pocket, and vanishes back into the underbrush.

Hamilton stands frozen, that fleeting wonder replaced by a look of absolute betrayal. “Did that just—”

“Happen? Yes,” Ruby confirms, fighting a smile. “Congratulations, Ham. You’ve been selected as this year’s emergency winter storage unit.”