"The disappearances in Moonhaven weren't accidents," I type, then pause. Delete. Try again.
"For more than a century, a small mountain town kept its secrets through silence. This is how that silence broke."
Better. Truth without spectacle.
My phone buzzes—a text from Dick.
He finally shows lukewarm interest now that I’ve been zombie wolf chow more than once.
He wants to know when I’ll send in my piece.
Network interest is high.
Interest is high. Interest is high not based on my work speaking for itself. It’s high because he thinks readers wants another chance to gawk at a big girl who somehow manages to employ skill and talent despite her size.
I stare at the message, remembering how quickly my body-positivity panel became a viral moment, how my discomfort transformed into entertainment. Not this time.
Still writing. Publication timeline TBD.
The response comes immediately.
Ellie, strike while iron is hot. This supernatural angle…
I turn the phone face down. This story belongs to Moonhaven first, to the families who lost people, to the pack members who've lived with the weight of protection and secrecy. It doesn't belong to a news cycle hungry for the next strange thing to devour.
A knock interrupts my thoughts. I open the door to find Janet from the diner, holding a covered plate.
"Thought you might be hungry." Her eyes don't quite meet mine. "Been seeing you at that computer all hours. Thought I’d drop this on my way home."
I accept the plate, steam rising from beneath the checkered cloth. "Thank you. That's very kind."
She lingers in the doorway, fidgeting with her apron strings. "The story you're writing... about what happened here..."
"What about it?"
"Will it make us sound crazy? Like one of those tabloid towns?"
I study her face—the worry lines, the genuine concern. A month ago, I would have rushed to reassure her, to minimize my own presence in her discomfort.
"I'm writing about what happened," I say instead. "Nothing more, nothing less."
She nods slowly. "That's all we can ask, I suppose."
After she leaves, I work a while before walking to the diner for coffee. The conversations don't stop when I enter anymore, but they shift—curious glances, careful nods. I order at the counter without apologizing for the space I take up.
"The usual?" asks Jack, the day-shift cook.
"Please."
A woman at the corner table leans toward her companion. "That's her. The reporter."
I don't shrink. Don't pretend I can't hear. I meet her eyes, offering a small nod. She looks away first, not hostile, just uncertain.
The silence stretches. In the past, I would have filled it with nervous chatter, self-deprecating jokes, anything to ease the tension I assumed was my fault. Instead, I wait. Let them adjust to my presence rather than contorting myself to fit their comfort.
"Coffee's ready," Jack announces.
"Thank you."