Yep. That’s my story, and until someone pries it from my big, stubborn, fur-covered hands, I’m sticking to it.
The trail feels different under my feet—softer, looser, the way it always gets when winter finally releases its grip. I move quietly, like always, though the forest is still half asleep and no one’s around to hear me.
Probably.
A half mile down, I catch it. A new scent. Well, notnew, precisely. Just… freshly returned.
Coffee. Cheap, burnt, human-made, and offensive to every leaf within a ten-mile radius.
And under it—pine soap. Elias’s pine soap.
My chest goes tight, stupidly so.
I slow down, sniffing the air like a bear rummaging for leftovers. The breeze shifts, carrying more hints—sunblock, graphite from a mechanical pencil, and whatever brand of laundry detergent makes him smell like citrus and mild chaos.
He’s back. Or at least… he’sbeenhere recently.
I crouch beside the trail, scanning for physical signs. The first is obvious: a footprint, half melted into the slush. Not a ranger’s—those boots are heavier, wider, made to trudge through everything. Elias’s boots are lighter, worn in, and he tends to drag the left heel just a fraction, like he never learned to pick up his feet all the way.
There it is. That exact little heel drag.
My heart thumps like a startled grouse, which is absolutely not ideal. I should turn back.
Responsibility. Stability. Dignity. But I’m already moving forward before my brain finishes debating me.
The forest grows brighter as I approach the branching trail that leads to the research station. More footprints—several sets now. They’re human, heavy, and intentional. Rangers.
Rangers mean caution.
I slow, slipping into the trees, senses alert. Voices drift through the quiet morning, one louder than the rest. It’s Gladys.
Park Ranger Gladys Crowe is… well, she’s a force. Small, sharp, and older than most of the staff, she has the kind of voice that sounds like she’s been yelling at mountains her whole life and winning the arguments.
She’s also one of the only humans I respect from afar.
She doesn’t litter. Doesn’t stomp through undergrowth like a rhino. Doesn’t assume the wilderness owes her anything. And she’s come dangerously close to spotting me. Twice.
Not that I’ve told anyone that. Ever.
I climb onto a fallen cedar, keeping low, peering through dense branches as she steps into view below with two junior rangers. Gladys has a clipboard in her hand—her weapon of choice—and a thermos tucked under her arm.
She’s talking.
“…and if you see any unusual tracks, mark the coordinatesbeforeyou call it in. Last year someone wasted three hours investigating raccoon prints like they were a cougar sighting.”
One of the young rangers mutters, “But they were big raccoons.”
Gladys doesn’t slow down. “Everything is big when you’re green. Keep moving.”
I like her. In the way a cryptid can like a human without wanting to be anywhere near them.
She walks right past where I’m hiding—close enough that if I exhaled too hard, the branches would rustle. My muscles go still, stone still, and when Gladys pauses, I stop breathing entirely.
She turns her head slightly, eyes narrowing toward the tree line. She lifts her chin, sniffing the air like she somehow knows something’s watching her.
Cedar fronds scrape lightly against my fur—the tiniest whisper of sound. Gladys stills.
“Did you hear something?” one of the junior rangers asks.