Page 3 of Stout Bear

Laney wondered if her partial shifter status would stand out. Would others sense her difference? Would they question her presence?

“Let me show you to your workstation,” Ivy said, standing up. “You can get started right away.”

They walked back into the main lab area, where Ivy led her to an empty desk near a bank of windows. The space looked organized and well-equipped, with a computer, notebook, and a stack of water-testing vials arranged neatly on the surface.

“This will be your primary workspace,” Ivy said. “Though you’ll spend plenty of time in the field once you’re settled.”

“Perfect,” Laney said, setting down the folder and her bag. Nearby monitors displayed data on ongoing chemical analyses.

“You can start by testing these samples,” Ivy said, indicating a row of vials on her desk. “We’ll coordinate your field tasks once you’re up to speed.”

Laney nodded. The institute offered an opportunity to make a real difference for Fate Mountain’s ecosystem. If she focused on the work rather than her insecurities, perhaps her performance would speak for itself.

“Thank you for this opportunity,” Laney said. “I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t,” Ivy replied with a smile. “Your references spoke highly of your attention to detail and dedication to environmental protection. Those qualities matter more than anything else.”

Laney cringed inwardly. She’d left her previous position when her concerns about environmental violations were dismissed. The memory stung, but they’d given her a good enough reference to impress Dr. Bright. The institute represented a fresh start.

“I’ll let you get settled,” Ivy said. “My office is always open if you need anything.”

After Ivy left, Laney sat down at her workstation and logged into the institute’s network using the credentials provided in her welcome package. She clicked through the water quality protocols, finding them comprehensive and scientifically sound. The institute maintained high standards. Contributing to such important work might finally silence her self-doubt.

Science didn’t care if she could fully shift or not. Results were objective, regardless of who collected them. Laney allowed a flicker of optimism. She belonged in this field, even if she didn’t fully belong in shifter society.

Chapter

Three

“Let’ssee if this batch will work for the festival,” Max said to his brewing team. He lifted a tray of small tasting glasses filled with samples from their newest seasonal ale.

Max placed the tray on the worktable and picked up one of the small glasses, nodding for Chris, Marisol, and Jonas to do the same. The beer’s golden hue looked inviting at first glance, but an unusual scent emerged as soon as they lifted their glasses. Max frowned, swirling the liquid gently before taking a cautious sip.

“That’s got a strange tang,” he said, lowering the glass and studying the contents with narrowed eyes.

This wasn’t the first time he’d noticed this off-flavor. A test batch had shown hints of the same acidity, but what had begun as the faintest hint a week ago had now developed into something unmistakable and concerning.

Max set his glass aside and pointed toward the whiteboard where he’d recorded fermentation times and temperature readings. Chris, Marisol, and Jonas exchanged worried glances.“I noticed a metallic hint last week. We should’ve dug deeper then,” Max said, running a hand through his hair.

He regretted dismissing the issue as something that would resolve with standard sanitizing procedures. The continued problem suggested it was something more serious.

Chris flipped through his notebook, scanning pages of ingredient ratios and brewing notes. “We can adjust the malt profile or hop schedule,” he suggested.

Beside him, Marisol checked temperature logs on her tablet. “The yeast temps look fine on my readouts, but I’ll log each step again,” she said.

Jonas referenced a chart of hop varieties pinned to a corkboard near the grain storage area. “We’ll sort it out. A slight pH adjustment might do the trick,” he said, his confident tone betraying only a hint of uncertainty.

Max appreciated their optimism, but his instincts told him they faced more than a simple adjustment issue. The brewing area emphasized cleanliness and precision, from the organized rows of glassware to the spotless stainless-steel tanks. Each tank bore a batch number and production date, part of a meticulous system that rarely failed.

“We sanitized everything last week,” Max said. If standard sanitizing procedures hadn’t resolved it, perhaps the contamination originated from an external source.

Chris, Marisol, and Jonas split up to check different areas of the brewery. “We’ll double-check the seals on every valve,” Marisol called from behind a large fermentation vessel.

The timing troubled him. The festival was approaching, and his siblings were counting on him to deliver the promised seasonal brews. A small shelf near the entrance held trophies and awards, reminders of the brewery’s reputation for excellence. Max glanced at them, feeling the weight of expectation that accompanied the Bock name.

Chapter

Four

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