Page 1 of The Ripple Effect

Prologue

ONE YEAR AGO

Objectively speaking, this concert is a disaster. Which makes it exactly what I need tonight.

Earlier, when the surprise May cold snap came down in a blast of arctic air, the lead singer of the opening act kicked off their performance by drunkenly slurring, “Wehateplaying Canada.” Two hours after they wrapped up their sullen set, the crowd’s still shivering, waiting for the headliners to take the stage.

But I love a good disaster. My specialty is “working the problem,” a skill I perfected as an emergency physician: list all possible solutions, rank them from most to least useful, and try them all exactly once. Don’t freeze if one or two or six solutions don’t work; getting stuck can literally mean life or death.

Crises are when you discover whoyouare—when you get to choose who you want to be.

And tonight, I need to be who I used to be. I need to get back in balance.

Because I don’t feel so steady these days.

Sometimes, I’m mostly myself: little, but fierce. Still pissed off at the state of the world, if a bit tired of throwing myself into finding solutions.

Other times I feel like even the tiniest pebble tossed into my inner waters would make a ripple big enough to take me under.

So here I am, back inmytown for a weekend, looking to soak up some chaos and energy to tide me over for a while. Everything I love is here—grumpy mountains, turbulent rivers, and Liz, the best friend who’s more of a sister to me than anyone I’d match to with a cheek swab.

I wish she’d come to this festival with me. Then I’d have someone to hug for warmth—someone to hug, period—and she wouldn’t be staying home to do yet more unpaid work for her douchecanoe boss. The only familiar face I’ve spotted in this farmer’s field is an acquaintance at best, a friend of Liz’s husband who goes by the frankly unbelievable name of McHuge.

He’s big, sure. But I’ve seen bigger. Like that time an NFL defensive back gave the keynote speech at the Pacific Northwest Trauma Society conference. Or in Jason Momoa movies. Probably.

All evening, I’ve watched guys slap him on the back before asking if he could spare a twenty. Long-legged women wearing flower crowns leap into his arms, then walk away five minutes later with his food and tea. They all promise to pay him back; he brushes them off with hippie platitudes about energy and karma.

Everywhere I look, McHuge’s head and shoulders rise above the crowd, dark-ginger curls and pale skin popping against the blue-green mountains bracketing the Pendleton Valley. We’re not hanging out together, but when aggressively intoxicated people lurch in my direction, he materializes togently redirect them before nodding and stepping a respectful distance away.

He’s not my type. Obviously. I’m only watching him because I can’t figure him out.

Besides his size, there’s nothing physically remarkable about him. He’s got longish hair and a big beard—not an uncommon look in Pendleton and Grey Tusk, the famous ski resort half an hour south of here. Prominent nose balanced by full lips. Generous auburn brows over eyes of dark mossy green flecked with gold. No visible tattoos or piercings.

He’s not what I’d call pretty. Rather, he’s attractive in a rough way; clean but not quite tame. There’s something about the way he crosses his bulging arms and vibes to the music that makes me picture him in one of those medieval woodsman hats, playing levelheaded Little John, solving everyone’s problems by giving them his stuff.

My mom was like that: generous to a fault, unable to hold on to anything if she thought someone wanted or needed it. Then along came my dad, convinced he deserved everything for nothing. A perfect match, as long as you weren’t their kid.

That history is why I turned McHuge down half an hour ago when he offered me a flannel shirt big enough to fall past my knees. That, and I’m sensitive about my height. If I look too cute at a concert, people pick me up and surf me across the crowd, and some asshole always takes one of my shoes.

I took care assembling tonight’s anti-cute outfit: red lips, platinum pompadour, fresh undercut. A black tank top emphasizes my newly completed left sleeve—a cyborg fantasy in shadowy gray with the Rebel Alliance symbol on the back of my wrist and Luke Skywalker’s prosthetic circuits over the tender skin immediately opposite.

I look pleasingly scary, but I’m fucking freezing.

The second I glance at McHuge, toasty in his long-sleeved, high-necked fleece, he appears at my side like he can hear my brain waves. “You’re shivering. How ’bout you borrow my jacket for ten minutes, and give it back once you get warm?”

Not even this miserable cold can unclench the hesitation that fists in my stomach. I don’t take spontaneous favors from people I don’t know. That’s how my dad would reel in a mark, with favors they didn’t ask for but felt obliged to repay.

“N-no, thanks,” I say, teeth chattering.

A spiky-haired figure takes the stage. The crowd wakes like a beast, miserable moans giving way to a roar of excitement. Relief floods me, feeling almost warm. I’ll duck up to the front—one of the rare times being tiny comes in handy—tuck myself into the crush, and get my core temperature up.

“Sorry, everyone. The Bare-knuckle Fighters have some cold-related equipment problems we haven’t been able to fix. We wish we could play for you, but we have to cancel.”

Disappointed wails transform to an angry mutter, then a collective scream of rage.

Bodies surge around me, knocking me face-first into McHuge’s chest, because of course he’s right here, where I’d swear he wasn’t a second ago.Maybe heisthat big, I think, as my cheek mashes against his pec.

Somebody grabs my shoulder while clawing their way to the howling mayhem in front of the stage. McHuge’s chest tilts hard. Shit, I’m falling, my head accelerating toward a seething forest of legs.

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