I should be focusing on the looming responsibility of the Solstice, the Network diagnostics overdue in three states, and the fact that my departure is now only a week away.
Instead? I’m sitting on a boulder outside my cave, staring at a map like it personally insulted me.
The journey from Olympic National Park to Yellowstone is not impossible. For a sasquatch, it’s practically scenic. I’ve done it every year for the last century, taking different routes depending on storms, terrain shifts, and whether or not Calder has decided solitude is preferable to company and needs reminding that the Solstice is worth attending.
But this year? This year I’m bringing a human.
A human who thinks the distance between Washington and Wyoming is “a really cool walk.”
A human who hasn’t considered that walking 874 miles would take him six weeks.
A human who seems blissfully unaware that the world between here and Yellowstone is filled with cryptids who do not have my… restraint.
And a human who, for reasons I can’t fathom, wants to be next to me through all of it.
I drag my hand down my face. “Of all the humans,” I mutter, “it had to be the enthusiastic one.”
Not that I dislike enthusiasm. I just dislike how much I likehis.
I pull the map closer, tracing the general corridor we’ll need to cross. If Elias were alone—a prospect that already makes my hair stand on end—he’d need to walk twenty miles a day if he’s pushing himself over a minimum of six weeks. That would include multiple campsite stops, food caches, water sources, and absolutely zero major injuries.
Humans are marvelously inefficient.
Me? If I travel at full sasquatch pace—long strides, spent half in the blur—I can do the journey in twelve days if I take detours. I can do it in ten if I ignore common sense, and if I want to limp into Yellowstone and get scolded by Bob, I could push for eight days.
We have four weeks in total, which has to allow for checks and no doubt me spending time fixing elements of the Network that have been misbehaving.
I sigh.
Of course he hasn’t thought about logistics. He’s too excited. Delightfully, luminously excited in a way that makes my chest ache in places I didn’t know still felt things.
He wants thejourney. Wants the adventure. Wants to see my world. Wants… me.
I rub my sternum because apparently my heart has decided it wants to embarrass me today.
“All right,” I grumble. “Let’s be practical.”
I start marking major cryptid territories on the map. It’s not mandatory to check every node on the way to the Solstice, but itiswise. Some have been glitching lately, and I can’t ignore them—not when the entire US Network depends on a stable grid.
Between Washington and Wyoming, the most relevant contacts are the Wenatchee Forest Giants. They’re ancient, territorial, and suspicious of technology. Every time their node goes offline, they blame the wires for “being rude.”
There are also the Yakima Gorge Watchers. While they’re not dangerous, they are anxious. They sense disturbances across mountain ranges and panic accordingly.
The Shunka Warak’in Pack in the Idaho Panhandle are wolflike cryptids with sharp senses and zero patience. If they smell “stranger human” on me without warning, they’ll track and interrogate us. Honestly, I don’t have time for pissing contests.
Of course there’s Calder, the Beast of Bray Road in Wisconsin. Most cryptids know to give him space. He’s quiet, guarded, and has little interest in anyone beyond the handful of people he considers his responsibility. Convincing him to check the Network is usually harder than convincing a gargoyle to update its passwords.
Then there’s Bob’s storm perimeter in the Wyoming borderlands. Thunderbirds always know what passes through their skies. He, specifically, likes to welcome me with dramatic weather. But at least he has his own human mate who can rationalize with him.
Not that Elias is mine. But I digress.
This year, I’ll need to notify each of them that I’m traveling with a human.
I can already hear Calder’s response:“Humans bring trouble. You know this.”
I huff a laugh despite myself before the humor fades.
Because it hits me—hard—that I’m bringing Elias directly into the heart of our world. Into a gathering of legends, some friendly, some volatile.