Page 70 of Who Let The Wolves Out?

Nada.

I’ve fought rogue kelpies. Survived Ferix’s interpretive dodgeball phase. I’ve even shifted mid-storm while trying not to eat a tree. But somehow, pitching an idea to the camp director feels like walking into a dragon’s den armed with a sticky note.

“Come in,” she calls.

I step inside, holding a slightly wrinkled manila folder like it’s a golden ticket.

Julie’s at her desk, glasses halfway down her nose, scribbling something into a logbook like it owes her money. She looks up, eyebrows lifting.

“Jason. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

I clear my throat. “I have… an idea.”

“Oh?”

She gestures to the extra chair across from her.

I sit. Immediately lean forward. Fidget. Then stop fidgeting because it feels weirdly vulnerable.

“So,” I begin, “you know how some of the kids come here and… they don’t quite fit in? Not just socially, but magically. Like, they’re still figuring out who they are.”

Julie nods, her face unreadable but listening.

“I’ve been thinking,” I continue, “what if there was a program—like, a structured thing—for those campers? A mentorship thing. Focused on giving them one-on-one support. Not therapy, but like… community. Confidence-building. Skill development. Pairing them with counselors or older campers who’ve been through similar stuff.”

I glance at her, heart hammering.

She doesn’t interrupt. Just motions for me to go on.

“Nolan,” I say. “He’s the reason I thought of it. That kid came in terrified of his own skin, and now he’s writing comics about a dragon that doesn’t want to fight, just wants to beseen.That kind of transformation? That’s not luck. That’s what happens when someone getsseen.When they’re told it’s okay not to have it all figured out.”

Julie leans back, arms folded, and I can’t tell if she’s impressed or about to send me back to the firewood pile forever.

I push the folder across the desk toward her.

“I made a rough draft. Like… an outline. With bullet points.”

“You typed?” she asks, brows rising.

“Alicetyped. But I dictated.”

She cracks a smile.

I grin. “Look, I’m not saying I’m the poster child for emotional stability?—”

“Certainly not.”

“—but I know what it’s like to grow up scared of your own power. To wonder if you’re too much for the world. And if I can help even one of those kids feel a little less lost, then it’s worth a shot.”

Julie opens the folder, scans the page, taps a pen against the margin. Then she closes it, slowly, and looks at me.

“I like it.”

My breath catches.

“But,” she says, holding up a finger, “it has to go through the proper channels. I need to run it past the board, work with programming, figure out staffing. You’re still a camp counselor, not the director of New Emotional Horizons.”

“Yet,” I offer with a wink.

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