Page 2 of Who Let The Wolves Out?

Jason leans in slightly, arms crossed, and his eyes—dark, unreadable—crinkle with mischief.

“Well, buckle up. The kids arrive in an hour, and we’ve got arts and crafts, dodgeball, and a scavenger hunt all packed into day one. Oh, and by the way... we’re the wild cabin.”

My face must betray the panic flaring in my chest because he laughs—a full, unrestrained belly laugh that echoes off the nearby trees.

I flinch.

“Great,” I say under my breath. “Just what I needed.”

Cabin C looks like it’s been assembled out of dreams and desperation. Pine wood siding. A crooked chimney. A porch swing that squeaks like it’s haunted.

Inside, there are two counselor bunks in the back, six camper bunks lining the walls, and a small kitchenette that smells like bubblegum and mildew. The air is heavy with forgotten sunscreen and the faint tang of werewolf sweat.

“This one’s yours,” Jason says, pointing to the bottom bunk by the window. He flops onto the top bunk like it’s his personal throne.

I gently place my bag down and smooth the blanket. “Thank you.”

He props one arm under his head and watches me with that lazy wolf’s grin. “So, what’s your deal?”

“My...deal?”

“You’ve got that whole ‘runaway from heartbreak’ energy. Did someone cheat on you? Owe you money? Marry your cousin?”

I whip around, scandalized. “That’s none of your business!”

He shrugs. “Fair. But I’m not wrong, am I?”

I grit my teeth. “Look. I didn’t come here to flirt or gossip or... whatever this is.”

“You came here to teach kids how to braid friendship bracelets and not cry yourself to sleep. I get it.” He pauses. “Kinda hot, honestly.”

My cheeks flame. I pretend to rearrange my pillow.

“God, you’re easy to rile up,” he mutters, laughing again. “This is gonna be fun.”

The orientation bell rings outside. Jason’s already halfway out the door before I’ve found my sunscreen.

“We gotta wrangle the crew for the welcome circle,” he calls over his shoulder. “You comin’, Barbie?”

I take a deep breath. One. Two. Three.

“Yes. But stop calling me Barbie.”

He smirks without looking back. “No promises.”

We gather by the lake with a sea of squirming kids who look entirely too caffeinated for 10 a.m. Jason immediately launches into a dramatic introduction involving interpretive dance, a fake wolf howl, and pretending to faint when the kids boo him.

They love him.

I want to scream.

Instead, I clear my throat, stepping forward with my clipboard. “Group C, let’s form a line—alphabetical by last name, please!”

The kids groan.

Jason leans in. “You're gonna have a heart attack before Thursday, counselor.”

I grip my pen like a sword. “And you’re going to give me one.”

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