Page 24

JASON

I knock on Julie’s office door with exactly the amount of confidence I don’t have.

Which is none.

Zip.

Nada.

I’ve fought rogue kelpies. Survived Ferix’s interpretive dodgeball phase. I’ve even shifted mid-storm while trying not to eat a tree. But somehow, pitching an idea to the camp director feels like walking into a dragon’s den armed with a sticky note.

“Come in,” she calls.

I step inside, holding a slightly wrinkled manila folder like it’s a golden ticket.

Julie’s at her desk, glasses halfway down her nose, scribbling something into a logbook like it owes her money. She looks up, eyebrows lifting.

“Jason. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

I clear my throat. “I have… an idea.”

“Oh?”

She gestures to the extra chair across from her.

I sit. Immediately lean forward. Fidget. Then stop fidgeting because it feels weirdly vulnerable.

“So,” I begin, “you know how some of the kids come here and… they don’t quite fit in? Not just socially, but magically. Like, they’re still figuring out who they are.”

Julie nods, her face unreadable but listening.

“I’ve been thinking,” I continue, “what if there was a program—like, a structured thing—for those campers? A mentorship thing. Focused on giving them one-on-one support. Not therapy, but like… community. Confidence-building. Skill development. Pairing them with counselors or older campers who’ve been through similar stuff. ”

I glance at her, heart hammering.

She doesn’t interrupt. Just motions for me to go on.

“Nolan,” I say. “He’s the reason I thought of it.

That kid came in terrified of his own skin, and now he’s writing comics about a dragon that doesn’t want to fight, just wants to be seen.

That kind of transformation? That’s not luck.

That’s what happens when someone gets seen.

When they’re told it’s okay not to have it all figured out. ”

Julie leans back, arms folded, and I can’t tell if she’s impressed or about to send me back to the firewood pile forever.

I push the folder across the desk toward her.

“I made a rough draft. Like… an outline. With bullet points.”

“You typed?” she asks, brows rising.

“ Alice typed. But I dictated.”

She cracks a smile.

I grin. “Look, I’m not saying I’m the poster child for emotional stability?—”

“Certainly not.”

“—but I know what it’s like to grow up scared of your own power. To wonder if you’re too much for the world. And if I can help even one of those kids feel a little less lost, then it’s worth a shot.”

Julie opens the folder, scans the page, taps a pen against the margin. Then she closes it, slowly, and looks at me.

“I like it.”

My breath catches.

“But,” she says, holding up a finger, “it has to go through the proper channels. I need to run it past the board, work with programming, figure out staffing. You’re still a camp counselor, not the director of New Emotional Horizons.”

“Yet,” I offer with a wink.

She snorts. “Don’t push it, Wolf Boy.”

I lean back, a grin spreading across my face.

“So you think it’ll work?”

She nods once. “I think it can. And more importantly, I think you’re the right person to lead it.”

My chest goes tight.

Good tight.

Like my ribs just grew to make room for something bigger.

“Thanks, Julie,” I say.

She gestures to the door. “Now go help Zak with the lake obstacle course. He nearly drowned a witch this morning with the floating trampoline.”

I’m already halfway up. “On it.”

“And Jason?”

“Yeah?”

She smiles. “Good pitch.”

I walk out of that office ten feet taller.

Because for once, I didn’t just belong here.

I built something here.

I find Alice in the art shed, perched on a stool in a cloud of yarn and glitter chaos, helping Rubi tie a bead necklace that looks suspiciously like a mini spell circle.

She flashes me a quick smile but finishes tying off the cord before walking over to where I’m waiting by the door, folder still tucked under my arm.

“Okay,” she says, brushing glitter off her hands. “You’ve got that face.”

“What face?”

“That I did something brave but now I’m panicking about it face.”

I grin. “Wow, called out.”

She crosses her arms and tips her head. “Spill.”

I hold out the folder. “I pitched it. To Julie.”

She blinks. “Pitched what?”

“The mentorship program. For kids like Nolan.”

Her expression shifts immediately—curious, open. She takes the folder gently and flips it open, skimming the first page.

“Wait—this is that idea? The one you were too shy to actually show her last week?”

“I wasn’t shy. I was... emotionally buffering.”

She smirks without looking up. “Uh-huh.”

I lean against the doorframe and try to sound casual.

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while.

How there are campers who don’t quite...

find their place here right away. The ones who struggle with their powers or don’t have great support systems at home.

The ones like Nolan, who show up half-terrified and full of doubt. ”

Alice’s eyes soften, and she closes the folder slowly. “Go on.”

I scratch my chin. “What if we had something just for them? A kind of safe group—mentors, maybe some older teens who’ve been through rough transitions—who could help.

One-on-one stuff. Practical support, confidence-building, maybe some light magical training focused on empowerment, not just control. ”

Her mouth parts slightly. She says nothing, which—coming from Alice—is the equivalent of a stunned gasp.

I keep going, encouraged. “It wouldn’t be therapy. Just a consistent place where the kids who feel weird or wrong or too much can go and be told, ‘Hey, your weird is valid. You’re not broken. You just need guidance.’”

Alice presses a hand to her chest, eyes bright. “Jason, this is... this is beautiful.”

I blink. “You really think so?”

“Yes.” Her voice wobbles just a little. “You’re not just making space. You’re building something that tells these kids they’re worth investing in. You’re showing them what you never got.”

The words land so square in my chest I forget how to breathe for a second.

She steps closer, still holding the folder. “Did Julie say yes?”

“She said she needs to run it through the right channels. Talk to the board. Sort out staffing. But she liked it. Said she thinks I might be the one to lead it.”

“You are. ” Alice is glowing now, eyes locked on mine like she’s seeing me even clearer than before. “Jason, this is so needed.”

I shrug, suddenly shy again. “I just… kept thinking about Nolan. About how much he changed once someone told him he could be himself without hiding. And it made me wonder how many other kids feel like they have to stuff their magic into a box just to survive.”

She nods, quiet for a moment. Then softly, “You know I want in, right?”

I blink. “What?”

“I want to help. Build it with you. Develop the curriculum. Pair the kids. Train the mentors. All of it. If you’ll let me.”

My throat gets tight.

“You’d do that?”

She steps in, brushing her fingers against mine. “Of course I would. This isn’t just your dream anymore.”

I stare at her—my Alice. Quiet, steady, brilliant Alice—and suddenly I don’t feel so overwhelmed by the weight of what I’m trying to build.

Because she’s in it with me.

And if we can give these kids even a fraction of what we’ve built together?

Then it’s already worth it.