Page 64 of Orc Me, Maybe

“That’s enough.”

She cackles, totally unrepentant. “She’d say yes.”

“Lillian.”

“She already says yes to everything. She only yells when you’re being dumb. And she tells me I’m brave.”

That part softens me, whether I want it to or not.

“She’s not like Mom,” she says. “But she’s… good.”

I reach over and ruffle her hair.

“You’re a menace,” I mutter.

“You’re in love,” she singsongs.I don’t sleep that night. I sit on the porch of the cabin, the box in my hand, watching the stars blink overhead like they know something I don’t. The camp is quiet, save for the occasional hoot of an owl or the magical hum of the perimeter wards adjusting for wind. I think about what Lillian said. About Julie. About us. And I realize she’s right. I am in love. Which means I need to do something about it.

CHAPTER 26

JULIE

Iwake up with the kind of dread that hums in your bones.

The sunlight streaming through the canvas wall should be comforting—gentle, warm, laced with birdsong—but today it hits like a deadline. Final. Unforgiving. A reminder.

Today is the end.

My contract expires at sunset.

And the world keeps turning like it doesn’t care.

I lie still for a moment, staring at the ceiling of my tent, hoping the feeling will pass. It doesn’t. It curls tighter in my chest with every passing second, wrapping itself around my lungs, my heart, my spine.

There’s no knock at my flap. No surprise “hey, about that extension” or sudden emergencies to delay the inevitable. Just the quiet certainty that everything I’ve built here might evaporate before dinner.

I finally sit up and swing my legs over the cot, the floor cool beneath my bare feet. My bag waits at the foot of the bed, half-packed from the night before. My clipboard leans against the nightstand, lonely. Lillian’s drawing—me, her, and Torack, all holding hands in front of the camp gates—is still pinned to the post beside my pillow.

I touch it once, gently, like it might disappear if I press too hard.

Then I breathe, square my shoulders, and start folding.

Because that’s what I do.

I fold the chaos. I order the fear. I make myself small and efficient and reliable. Even when it feels like something in me is screaming don’t go so loud it might crack my ribs.

I start with the socks.

Not because they matter most, but because they’re neutral. Safe. Practical. The kind of thing you can roll up and stack without thinking too hard about what they mean. You don’t cry over socks. Usually.

My hands fold out of habit. Left over right, cuff aligned, no loose edges. Like every part of me that’s spent a lifetime trying to be neat and small and unnoticeable. Efficient.

One pair. Then two. Then the shirt I wore the first day here—blue cotton, still faintly stained with troll mud despite three washes and a desperate lemon charm. Then the camp-issued sweater Lillian decorated with glitter sigils. Then the clipboard I haven’t let go of since month one, the edges worn soft by grip and worry.

Each thing goes into the duffel like a silent goodbye.

And still, no one’s said anything.

The contract ends today. Not tomorrow. Not in a week. Not metaphorically. Officially. Legally. In real, ink-and-seal, thank-you-for-your-service form.

---