Page 5 of Who Let The Wolves Out?

There’s a smear of it across my forearm, my cheek, and somehow in the part of my hair, despite having tied it into a ponytail with military precision. The craft cabin is... not what I expected. The supply bins are mostly unlabeled. The pipe cleaners are tangled with fishing line. Someone has taped a “Do Not Open: Goblin” sign on the cabinet under the sink, and I’m not sure if it’s a joke or a genuine safety concern.

I press my clipboard to my chest and take a breath.

It’s fine. This is what I’m good at. Structure. Calm. Order. I just need to lead with confidence and the kids will follow. That’s what the counselor orientation video said.Kids respond to confident leadership.

I clear my throat. “Okay, Group C! Today we’re making kindness jars.”

The kids barely glance at me. One is already chewing on a glue stick. Another is drawing what appears to be a dragon peeing on a village. Jason—who is supposed to be helping—has pulled up a chair and is holding court with four boys,dramatically recounting what Ihopeis a fake story involving a centaur and a malfunctioning zipline.

I move toward him. “Jason. Could you—um—help me get them started on the jars?”

He flashes me a grin, wide and lazy. “They’re just warming up. We’ll jump in.”

“Warming up looks a lot like chaos,” I say under my breath.

Jason’s chair creaks as he leans back, arms stretched behind his head like he’s sunbathing in the middle of a hurricane. “Chaos is the prelude to genius.”

I blink. “What?”

“Quote me,” he says, then winks at one of the kids who is now using glitter as war paint.

I try again. “Everyone! Let’s each take a mason jar and start writing down kind things you’ve done or noticed others doing. We’ll decorate the jars with stickers and ribbon, and at the end of the week we’ll read some aloud?—”

A crash.

Followed by cackling.

I whirl around just in time to see Tommy—a tiefling with goat horns and a disturbingly accurate evil laugh—knock over a bin of beads. They roll across the floor like they’re fleeing a sinking ship.

“Tommy,” I say, trying to channel authority, “Please pick those up.”

“Jason said dropping them was part of the bonding experience,” he chirps.

I whip my head toward Jason, eyes wide. “What?”

Jason shrugs, not even pretending to look sorry. “They’re building trust. Beads of trust.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is now.”

I close my eyes. Breathe. “Can you just—please—follow the plan?”

Jason kicks his legs up onto another chair. “You mean your laminated spreadsheet plan? The one where we pretend kids don’t want to eat paint and start fires?”

“They need structure,” I snap, louder than I meant to.

The room goes quiet for a half-second. Just long enough for it to sting.

Jason stands up slowly, rolling his shoulders. “They need to have fun. Loosen up, Barbie.”

I clench my jaw. “I already told you to stop calling me that.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Why? ‘Cause it’s not listed in your itinerary?”

There’s something about his tone—lazy, flippant—that makes the heat rise in my chest. It’s not just annoyance. It’s frustration laced with something sharper. Something that tastes like humiliation.

I slam my clipboard onto the table.

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