Page 14

JASON

I ’m up before the sun.

Not because I slept well—hell no. I was up half the night pacing the bunk, chewing on every word Zack dumped on me like a gossip grenade.

Aisla filed a report.

Security risk.

Werewolves have no place guiding children.

It shouldn’t hurt. I’ve heard worse. My own uncle once told me I was better off as a lone wolf—less dangerous that way.

But here? At Lightring?

This was the first place that felt like maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t the monster in the story.

And now I’m sitting here wondering if they’re already writing me out of the ending.

I don’t even eat breakfast. I slip out before the kitchen lights hum on. No tank top. No clipboard. Just me, bare-chested, bare-footed, running.

The woods are quiet in that thick, early way. Mist clings to the underbrush. My breath puffs in clouds. My pulse roars in my ears like a warning bell.

I run faster.

My bones itch with change. It’s too soon for the moon, but the pressure is there, like my wolf knows something’s off. Like he’s pacing just under my skin.

I let him rise—just a little.

Eyes sharpen. Breath deepens. My stride stretches long and low, a rhythm I could lose myself in.

Because I need to lose myself.

Alice won’t look me in the eye. And now the camp itself is turning into quicksand. And I’m not sure how to fight for something that’s slipping through my hands from two sides.

So I run.

By the time I loop back, the sun’s up and the campers are trickling toward the lake for paddleboard races. I skirt around them like a ghost, ducking behind the bathhouse, yanking on a sweatshirt.

I spend the morning cleaning out the supply shed even though no one asked me to. I organize the ropes, stack the trail guides, restock the fire starters. I scrub the goddamn floor.

Julie finds me mid-mop.

She leans in the doorway, arms crossed, one brow lifted. “You’re nesting. That’s never a good sign.”

I grunt. “Just getting ahead.”

She doesn’t move.

I finally look up. “What?”

“You know what.”

My grip tightens on the mop handle. “No, Julie, I really don’t. Enlighten me.”

She sighs. “Aisla’s report. You heard?”

“Zack heard. Which means I heard.”

Julie’s expression softens. “I didn’t file it.”

“But you didn’t stop it either.”

She walks in slowly. “I haven’t submitted it to the board. It’s sitting in my inbox.”

I stare at her.

“I wanted to talk to you first,” she says. “See how you’re feeling. Hear your side.”

“There’s no side,” I snap. “I shift. I howl. I break a few lawn chairs every full moon. I’m not denying any of that.”

She gives me a long look. “And you also haven’t hurt a single camper. Not even close. You’ve taught them patience, teamwork, bravery—hell, Nolan’s already writing you into his comic book. As a hero. ”

I blink.

That part gets me more than I want to admit.

“But,” I say, softer now, “people don’t write reports about heroes, do they?”

Julie exhales. “Aisla’s old-school. She sees liability where I see lived experience.”

I shake my head. “I don’t want to be a symbol, Julie. I just want to be a damn counselor.”

“You are,” she says. “And a damn good one.”

I look away.

“Just... don’t run yet,” she says. “Give it a minute.”

And then she’s gone.

Leaving me in a spotless shed and a head full of chaos.

I spend the rest of the day avoiding Alice.

She’s everywhere, though. Laughing with campers. Replacing paintbrushes. Sitting under the cedar tree with Rubi and her friendship bracelet empire.

I want to talk to her.

I want to tell her about the report. About how I’m scared I don’t belong here. About how her silence feels like a door I don’t have the key for anymore.

But instead, I nod when we pass.

Say nothing.

And keep walking.

That night, I walk the edge of the woods, just where the camp lights fade into wild. My limbs ache, but not from the run.

From holding myself back.

I sit on a fallen log and look up at the stars.

They used to feel like maps. Like they were pointing me somewhere.

Now they just feel... far.

Maybe Aisla’s right.

Maybe I am a liability.

But if they push me out—if Alice stays silent—and if I go...

Who even notices I’m gone?

I’m still sitting on that log when I hear a soft rustle behind me—then a sniffle.

I turn.

Ferix. The little orc kid from Cabin B. Built like a baby linebacker with a heart the size of a thimble. He’s got dirt on his cheek, a skinned knee, and that look—half pain, half shame.

He freezes when he sees me. Straightens up like he’s trying to pretend he didn’t just trip over a tree root and eat gravel.

“Hey, buddy,” I say gently. “You alright?”

He shrugs. But he’s blinking fast, like he’s trying to force the tears back in.

I squat beside him. “That knee looks rough.”

“S’fine,” he mumbles. “I’m not crying.”

“It’s okay if you are.”

He sniffs harder. “Orcs don’t cry. My cousin said it makes me a girl.”

I pause.

Then sit down beside him fully.

“First of all,” I say, “crying doesn’t make you anything but alive. Second, girls are awesome. I’ve seen a centaur girl carry a canoe uphill and break up a fight without breaking a sweat.”

Ferix peeks at me. “Really?”

“Really. And if someone calls you weak for feeling stuff, that’s just ‘cause they’re too scared to feel anything themselves.”

He looks at his scraped knee. “Hurts.”

“I bet. Want me to clean it up?”

He nods.

I pull out my little field first aid pouch—because yes, I’m that guy now—and gently clean the cut. He hisses, but doesn’t cry. Just clenches his jaw and grips a stick like it’s a battle axe.

“You’re strong,” I say. “But not ‘cause you didn’t cry. You’re strong ‘cause you stayed. That’s the bravest thing you can do.”

He looks up at me with wide eyes. “Do you cry?”

“All the damn time,” I say with a wink. “Usually when they serve lentil stew.”

That gets a laugh. Just a small one.

But I’ll take it.

After I get him back to his cabin, I walk the long way back to mine.

And I can’t stop thinking about Ferix.

About Nolan.

About Rubi.

About how these kids—these messy, weird, magical little souls—have let me be part of their stories.

How they don’t see a liability.

They see a counselor.

And yeah, maybe I’m a little dangerous. Maybe I howl too loud or break stuff when I lose control.

But I love this place.

I love these kids.

And if I have to fight to stay...

Then damn it, I will.