Page 77 of Who Let The Wolves Out?

It’s the almost-disasters.

The close calls.

The choosing to stay steady when the chaos tries to tip the whole room.

I don’t mind holding the line.

Not when it’s for them.

The last act is a group number from the older campers—a mashup of magical illusions and emotional monologues set to an acoustic version of a pop song I pretend not to know.

They finish with glitter canons.

Literal. Glitter. Canons.

The whole front row gets sparkled.

Hazel claps her hands three times and shouts, “That concludes the 103rd Camp Lightring Talent Show!”

Thunderous applause.

Screaming.

A small raccoon gets hoisted like Simba.

And I’m standing there, sticky with sweat and glitter and maybe a little bit of awe, realizing, this is it.

This is what we do.

We take weird, wild, wonderful kids and we give them a stage.

We let them be loud.

We let them beseen.

And we never—ever—tell them they’re too much.

Later, as we start helping the kids file out to evening snacks and firefly watching, Alice sidles up beside me, brushing some glitter out of my hair.

“Think we pulled it off?”

I grin. “Hazel might demand a director credit next year.”

“She’s earned it.”

I reach for her hand, just for a second, and squeeze.

“They were amazing,” I say quietly.

She nods. “They really were.”

And just like that, surrounded by noise and color and the afterglow of a hundred tiny triumphs.

This place is really me, somewhere I belong.

CHAPTER 27

ALICE

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