Chapter Text
Day ???
May 26, 2010
Marisol watched as her alma gemela¹—her media naranja², her bashert³, her âme sœur⁴, her anima gemella⁵—Jazzquine, packed lunch for her geschwisterkind⁶. Somehow, impossibly, she fell a little more in love with the wonderful woman.
She cleared her throat, but Jazz didn’t even glance up. With a sigh and an exasperated smile, Marisol shook her head. Her girlfriend could get so absorbed in little tasks.
Not bothering to hide her approach, Marisol closed the distance. When Jazz still didn’t notice, she pounced—wrapping her arms tightly around her waist and spinning her off the ground.
“Marisol. Put me down,” Jazz said flatly, though the faintest trace of surprise flickered across her face.
Marisol laughed, lowering her carefully back to the floor before pressing her face into Jazz’s rarely exposed neck. Jazz had a fondness for turtlenecks—much to Marisol’s endless annoyance.
“Mm,” Marisol sighed dramatically. “You hide this from me, querida⁷. Why? It’s unfair.” She nuzzled closer, catching the faint, steady thrum of her lover’s pulse. Three years together, and still that sound made her melt.
Jazz’s hands rested against Marisol’s arms—neither pushing her away nor pulling her closer.
It was an old argument, one they’d had a dozen times. Jazz knew she would never win it, not against Marisol’s persistence. So she sighed, the sound carrying a weight of long-suffering patience—but also a tenderness so deep it made Marisol’s heart flutter like she was sixteen again, dizzy with her first crush. Her pulse drummed rabbit-quick in her chest, impossible to hide, but Jazz didn’t tease.
Instead, her stoic lbnh⁸ simply stood still, letting her zun⁹ orbit close.
She hadn’t seen Jazzquine in two months, after all.
“So,” Marisol drawled, letting her natural accent thicken. The sound of it made Jazz’s ears flush bright red, though her face remained its usual impassive statue. “Where is your ward?”
At the question, Jazz’s shoulders slumped ever so slightly. She leaned back until her head rested against Marisol’s shoulder—a quiet surrender no one else ever got to see.
“Rayne is in their room,” she replied in her steady, neutral tone. “Getting ready to leave for the library.”
But Marisol felt the truth in the way Jazz lingered against her. She saw it in the flicker of her eyes, the softness carefully hidden under all that reserve. Jazz didn’t want the child to go.
Marisol’s gaze drifted to the table, where a half-finished lunch sat waiting. She recognized the careful folds of the wrap, the way the fruit was cut just so. Homemade. By Jazz’s hands.
Her lips curved in the faintest smirk. Jazz didn’t cook. Not that she couldn’t—Marisol had seen her follow a recipe with near military precision—but she found no joy in it, hated the mess, the fuss, the lingering smells. Normally, it took bribes, wheedling, or outright dares to get her to cook at all.
And yet here was a meal. Not a dinner shared by all, but a solitary lunch, prepared quietly for one child.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs—hesitant, then deliberately louder, as if to warn or announce. Marisol cocked her head, amused. Clever. They wanted her to know they were coming… or perhaps wanted Jazz to be ready.
Jazz straightened immediately, sliding the last piece of fruit into the container and clipping the lid shut with brisk efficiency. By the time the footsteps reached the landing, her expression was unreadable, her hands already lifting the lunch as though it had always been ready.
A moment later, a shockingly tall nine-year-old appeared at the foot of the steps. Their skin carried a deep, sun-warmed tan, their clear grey eyes cool and sharp as slate. They landed squarely on Marisol, narrowing with wary confusion.
That stare was too steady for a child.
Their hair, in contrast, was anything but—falling to their shoulders in a messy, tangled mane that spoke of neglect, of hurried brushes abandoned halfway through. It carried the look of someone who’d long ago stopped caring about how they appeared to the world—or never learned to care in the first place.
“Ah—there’s the little storm cloud I’ve heard so much about!” Marisol exclaimed warmly, her voice spilling into the room like sunlight.
The child flinched, sharp and quick, before their grey eyes darted to Jazz—accusation flickering there, as if betrayed that she hadn’t warned them.
“Hello, dear. I’m Marisol Reyes,” she continued, softening her tone, tilting her head with an easy smile. “A…friend of your aunt’s.” The pause hung in the air, deliberate but careful. Marisol wasn’t sure yet how much Jazz wanted her ward to know—if their bond was something shared aloud, or something still held quietly between the two of them.
“Bonjour¹⁰.”
The word came out rough—too rough for a child of nine. Marisol blinked, caught off guard by the gravel in their voice. Dios mío¹¹, she thought, a little stunned. That is one rough voice. Are children’s voices supposed to be that gravelly?
Still, her smile didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened with a flicker of curiosity. This one had sharp edges, she could feel it already.
“Rayne.” Jazz’s voice cut cleanly through their quiet staring contest. “This is Marisol, my girlfriend. I ask that you be cordial with her as you make your own judgment.”
Blunt, precise. Always Jazz. The words seemed too advanced for a child of nine, but Marisol only shrugged inwardly. Jazz knew her geschwisterkind⁶ better than she did.
“Here is your lunch,” Jazz continued, placing the container gently in Rayne’s hands. “I made sure there was no kiwi nor sesame.” An allergy? Marisol makes note to look it up.
Rayne didn’t thank her. Instead, they snapped the lid open right there at the table, rifling through its contents with deliberate care—sniff test and all. The message was loud, wordless, and aimed squarely at Jazz: I don’t trust you.
Marisol caught the faint flicker of hurt in her querida’s eyes—but also the understanding beneath it. So she stayed silent.
The child finally gave a small nod—acceptance, perhaps, or maybe just resignation. “I’ll be back by seven,” they muttered, already turning for the door.
The house seemed to exhale as it closed behind them.
“Well,” Marisol murmured under her breath, lips quirking in a wry half-smile. “A little storm cloud indeed.”
When she glanced at Jazz, though, the smile faded. Her querida looked older suddenly, her poise crumpled under invisible weight. In that moment, she seemed fifty instead of thirty-seven.
“It’s better than it has been,” Jazz admitted quietly. She smoothed her hands over the table, as if tidying away something that couldn’t be fixed so easily. “They wouldn’t even speak to me for the first month.”
Marisol’s chest tightened. She reached out, brushing her fingers across Jazz’s knuckles until Jazz stilled beneath the touch.
“Tell me everything.”
For a long moment, Jazz just looked at her—green eyes steady, unreadable, weighing the invitation. Then she exhaled, slow and measured, as though she’d been holding her breath for two months straight.
And she told her.
Day 4
Rayne opened their eyes and knew—knew—that the smell of burning flesh was only in their head. It wasn’t real. It was the swampy humidity pressing against their skin, making their scar itch like it was fresh again. Still, their stomach clenched as if smoke curled at the edges of the room.
They stared at the ceiling above the top bunk. It felt like a lid pressing down, as if the treehouse had shrunk overnight—walls inching closer, roof sinking lower, air thickening until it pinched the space around them into a too-tight point.
They blinked. Once. Twice. Deliberate. Careful.
The ceiling didn’t move.
Their chest did. Tightening. Each breath felt like it scraped against bone, like the air itself was rationed and they were running out.
Not real, they told themself. No smoke. No fire. Just air. Just air.
But the walls pressed anyway, invisible hands crowding closer.
Rayne pressed the heel of their palm against the scar through the thin fabric of their shirt, as if they could hold it still, stop it from buzzing under their skin. They counted—one, two, three—forcing their lungs to expand against the squeeze in their ribs.
The fan above clicked with every rotation, steady as a metronome. Rayne fixed on it, clung to it, until their chest loosened enough that air came without barbs.
Cold metal pressed into their hand—just under the pillow.
The ring.
They slipped it on. Cold. Smooth. Weighty.
The stainless steel band hugged their finger snugly, still cool from the shade beneath the pillow where heat hadn’t yet touched it. A braided chain sat embedded around the middle—a dark silver weave with links so small they caught against skin ridges. The outer edges gleamed, polished to mirror shine, already faintly smudged by sweat slicking their hands. The chain spun—a restless loop inside the ring’s frame—meant to be turned and worried and clicked.
They spun it. Once. Twice. Three times.
Click. Click. Click.
Tiny sounds. Only theirs.
The smooth spin grew sluggish quickly. The metal warmed against skin, heat swallowing the last bit of morning coolness. Soon it would feel heavy. Close. Like everything else.
But for now, it moved. For now, it worked.
Click. Click. Click.
Rayne spun the ring again and again until their breath wasn’t so ragged and their hands stopped shaking.
They slid off the bunk, every step measured, deliberate. If they woke someone, questions would follow. Questions meant interaction. Interaction meant exposure. They couldn’t afford that.
Alone—that was the only goal. Somewhere no one could reach them.
But nowhere in the treehouse was safe. There were six of them. No—eight. Hostile, every one.
Outside, then.
Rayne rode the elevator down, the hum loud in their ears, almost accusatory. They stepped into the entrance hall but stopped halfway through. Their feet froze without permission, as though their body remembered something their head hadn’t caught up to.
Why am I stopping?
The answer slotted in a moment later, bitter and obvious. Long Hair. If they took the same path as before, Long Hair could find them.
Esti d’épais¹², they scolded themselves, heat flashing under their skin.
So—they would go the opposite way.
The night was thick, swallowing everything. No lamps. No stars. Just black pressing against black. Still, their feet could tell the difference. Dirt paths had grooves, faint impressions of tires. Grass felt softer, damp. Rocks jabbed sharp against bare skin.
Rock and grass = bad. Dirt smooth and sand-like = good. Simple logic.
Rayne followed it, jogging for a long time, spinning their ring as fast as they could whenever they slowed to walk.
Click. Click. Click.
At last, the faint rush of water pulled them toward one of the island’s small rivers. They dropped down heavily at the bank. Dawn had started its climb; the rim of the sun burned over Mt. Sibo, brushing the dark away.
They slid their feet into the river, kicking absently. Ripples curled out—then deep red tendrils followed. For a moment they stared, confused. Yanking their feet free, they peered at the bottoms, pajamas clinging wet and cold, not caring in the slightest.
They pulled their feet from the water.
The sight was almost laughable—unreal, like a bad movie prop left out in the rain. Skin swollen pale where blisters had bubbled and burst, half-translucent from soaking. The river water slicked everything in a false shine, turning the raw pink flesh underneath into something candy-like, glossy and grotesque at once.
Blood threaded through the cuts in thin ribbons, bright against the washed-out skin. It didn’t seep so much as bloom, little bursts at each split where sharp rock had carved its own map. The water diluted it into faint tendrils that swirled around their ankles, red feathering into pink before dissolving into nothing.
The edges of the wounds looked too clean in places, as if they’d been sliced with intention, then softened by the soak. Elsewhere, ragged flaps of skin curled back like wet parchment. Blister roofs clung stubbornly, translucent domes filled with cloudy serum, bulging as if waiting for the slightest pressure to collapse.
Rayne stared.
Click. Click. Click.
The ring spun, steady, as the river thinned their blood into ribbons and carried it downstream.
The thought came uninvited: go back to the treehouse, clean and treat the foot.
Immediate dislike flared hot in their chest. The treehouse meant people. Questions. Eyes.
But then—the memory of what they’d walked through. Dirt. Rocks. Grass. The wet reek of the rainforest. A hundred tiny infections waiting.
They exhaled sharply through their nose, scanning the bank. Green shapes, familiar. Leaves with edges serrated just so, fibrous stems that pulled into threads. They knew these. Knew enough.
Hands worked quick, wrapping feet in makeshift poultices. Damp plant flesh pressed into split skin, holding what they could. Not perfect. Not even good. But better than nothing.
They stood, wincing as the river let go of them, and turned back, following their own trail of blood shaped footprints.
The walk back was annoying and Rayne was thankful they had such helpful marks to follow. Thankfully when the prints stopped and it was now visible Rayne could see what they cut there foot on.Rayne was surprised they made it back to their shoes without anyone stopping them—no questions about where they’d been, why they were tracking dirt, or why one foot was wrapped in leaves like a fucked-up sock. The two adults were too busy, circling a phone, voices sharp and overlapping, their argument chewing the air to pieces.
Rayne thanked their usually rotten luck for once doing something useful. Socks yanked over the bastard bandage, shoes crammed on, laces cinched until the pressure made their teeth grit. Better tight pain than open air.
They stood just as someone started calling for everyone to pile into the park’s truck-jeep-thing—whatever it was supposed to be. Rayne drifts off during the drive and blinks and comes back to their destination.
The platform creaked under their feet, wood hot from the sun, sticky where dew had baked away. Sap bled sharp from the railing, tacky against their fingers. Everything stank too strong—wet bark, dino musk, rotting fruit, green things crushed underfoot.
Ahead, the Mamenchisauruses moved like mountains dragged slow across the sky. Necks arched, dipped, vanished in mist. Their breathing—low, seismic—vibrated in Rayne’s ribs. Leaves cracked too loud between their teeth, wet and fibrous, like bones splintering.
Their pulse dragged syrupy. The air clung thick, swamp-sticky. Sweat ran down their spine and caught under their sleeves, itching. They didn’t wipe it. Couldn’t.
Each step squelched. Wet socks peeled against raw skin, the sound small but unbearable.
Squish. Squish. Squish.
A man stepped forward, clipboard tucked under one arm. About six feet, skin a shade or two darker than Bright Eyes. His eyes—steady, worn—snagged at Rayne’s memory.
Ol’ Man Winisan.
The homeless vet who let them crash under his tarp when foster family number three kicked them out. His arm had been blown off and no one would hire him. The family left his ass once they realised the PTSD wasn't him being dramatic and they didn’t wanna pay for his therapy.
Winisan was one of the few people Rayne actually gave a shit about in those two years. They visited whenever they were near his old haunts, even offered to ask Aunt Jazz or Marisol if they knew anyone who could help. But the stubborn bastard wouldn’t hear it—pride leading him off a cliff.
He vanished a month or two later. And Rayne knew they wouldn’t find him. If Ol’ Man Winisan didn’t want to be found, then he wouldn’t be.
Rayne kicked themself mentally, forcing focus back on the man in front of them. Dropping the shield, letting themself really see.
He glared at Minyard and Wymack, then turned his attention back on the group. His gaze lingered—just a beat too long—on Rayne. For a second, they were sure they’d met him before. But the man’s eyes held no spark of recognition. Nothing. So Rayne brushed it off.
“I’m Tyler Malaki. Welcome to Mountain Summit.”
The way he said it—clipped, commanding—settled it in Rayne’s mind. Military. Definitely.
“And before anyone asks—no, I’m not explaining the name. You’ll see for yourself.” His tone cut off any smartass replies before they started. “Also—photos, recordings, any kind of media—needs a signed release. Forms are over there.”
Eyesore practically launched herself at the table, scrambling for a pen.
“Wonderful. Now let’s get started. Come along, ducklings.” Malaki didn’t wait for a response, he walked away and Bright Eyes was on his practically having a seizure is excitement.
Rayne slipped into step, catching up as Malaki led them toward a massive redwood. Its trunk rose wide as a house, a staircase spiraling up into the canopy.
“Single file,” Malaki ordered. “No pushing. No running.”
When Rayne reached the top, the view punched the air out of their lungs.
Sibo loomed below, vast and steady, while clouds curled around the giant rock like a lover’s arms. Trees stretched on forever—green stacked on green, rolling into the horizon. It was just…life. Wild, endless, unapologetic life.
Of course, Sunglasses had to ruin it—cracking some joke Rayne didn’t even register. Didn’t matter. The spell broke anyway.
Then Rayne heard it.
Thud.
Thud-thud.
Thud. Thud-thud-thud.
Thud. Thud.
Something big was coming this way.
The thuds grew heavier, closer, until the ground itself felt like it was bracing. Then—out of the trees to the left—a neck rose. Higher, higher, blotting out half the sky. The rest of the body followed, each step shaking loose showers of leaves.
It was the largest sauropod Rayne had ever seen.
“Mamenchisaurus! Oh my god, it’s a real-life Mamenchisaurus!” Bright Eyes practically vibrated, words spilling fast—vertebrae counts, neck spans, evolutionary trivia—like his brain had been waiting years for the dam to break.
Malaki didn’t interrupt. He just smiled, letting the youngest ramble. That alone nudged him a notch higher in Rayne’s book. Adults who didn’t shut kids down were rare.
Rayne flicked a glance at Bright Eyes—yeah, they’d been hanging out more since the Toro mess. A few hours a day, easy. Not the worst company.
Out of all the campers, Bright Eyes and Long Hair were the ones Rayne knew best. Which wasn’t saying much—they’d only met less than a week ago.
Malaki shushed everyone as the herd drew closer. Two more emerged after the first, though none matched the bull’s height. Rayne figured that was him—the tallest, the one that demanded space without trying.
Malaki and Bright Eyes traded diet facts like they’d rehearsed it, the kid practically glowing. Vampy looked green, swaying like the height alone might send him over the railing. Long Hair stared, quiet, admiration written all over their face.
Sunglasses and Eyesore bickered under their breath—sharp, quick, like they couldn’t help it. Rayne just hoped she kept a grip on her phone this time.
Cowgirl was the closest to Rayne looking just as amazed as Long hair.
Bright Eyes was nearly vibrating. “Guys, this is amazing. Did you know their hearts can be the size of a car!”
He turned, eyes bright with curiosity. “Rayne? Hey, do you know these guys? The Mamenchisaurus? Like, have you seen them before?”
The question hit Rayne’s chest like a stone dropped into water—ripples spreading, slow and uneven.
Do they know them?
Had they seen them?
The thought snagged, then slipped. Everything inside was heavy, muffled, like their brain was wrapped in wet wool.
Time stretched. The buzz of insects drilled in. A bird shrieked sharp overhead. A fly landed on their wrist, crawled deliberate across the skin. They didn’t move. Couldn’t.
The herds Jazz worked near—those had been the young ones. Babies. Teenagers barely taller than the trucks.
Not these.
Not the adults.
Not giants that scraped the sky.
When their voice finally came, it dragged, syrup-thick.
“No.”
A slow shake of the head.
“Only the little ones. Not these.”
Their voice dragged, then stilled. After a beat, softer, almost an afterthought:
“I haven’t seen this species either.”
Bright Eyes beamed—like this was some gift, like he was genuinely glad Rayne got to see something new.
“Cool. Well, now you have.”
Everything blurred a bit from there. Malaki rambled off facts, slipping into the social dynamics between the bull, Sibo, and the two females—Everest and Aconcagua.
“Yes, they’re all named after mountains.”
Rayne adjusted the basket in their grip. The wicker edge pressed into their palm, steady and sharp.
Rayne picked at the leaf bandage without thinking, only holding it up when Malaki told them to. The sauropods barely had to dip their necks—so high up the three of them felt small, insignificant, like ants handing crumbs to giants.
Malaki went first with Sibo, then guided Vampy, Sunglasses, Cowgirl, and Eyesore with Everest. He even steadied Vampy’s shaking hands, patient and calm.
Rayne got Aconcagua, the smaller female. Of course they did, along with Long Hair and Bright Eyes.
They ended up steadying the basket with Bright Eyes, helping him lift it higher. He was too short to reach on his own, much to his obvious dismay.
Time passed quickly as Rayne fell into the comfortable rhythm of fill, hold and fill again.
Eventually the dinosaurs got bored and left.
☽─━★─━★─━★☾
The group made their way back to the treehouse.
Rayne lagged behind. Each step pressed their blood-wet sock against raw skin, a dull, dragging ache that settled into bone.
A flare of pain shot up with every strike of foot on floorboards. Their thin red Vans offered no relief—only friction, only sting.
The washroom door clicked shut behind them, cutting off laughter, games, the illusion of normalcy.
Inside, the air was cooler, sour with soap and stale shampoo. The cracked mirror broke their reflection into shards.
Rayne lowered onto the closed toilet seat and went for their Vans. Slow, careful. The first one clung, fabric glued to dried blood. They coaxed it loose, gentle as if handling something alive. The sound it made—wet, tearing, sickening.
Inside, just a small stain. Manageable. Washable. Good—Rayne liked these shoes. They set it aside and tugged off the other, the one guarding the uninjured foot. No drama there. Easy.
The socks, on the other hand, were a lost cause. Brown with dried blood, stiff at the seams. Straight to the garbage.
The makeshift bandage—leaves stripped from summer green—hadn’t survived either. Now they were the color of fall, brittle and stained. Ugly, but effective. They’d done their job.
The cuts across the bottom of Rayne’s foot had stopped bleeding, at least. Just raw now, angry at every ounce of weight they’d been forced to carry.
They lifted the injured foot into the sink and twisted the knob. The tap hissed, coughed, then spat a stream of cold that bit straight into the cuts. They cupped it, guided it over torn skin. The sting was instant, sharp enough to rattle their teeth. Cold numbed it, eventually. Cold always did.
The runoff turned pink, thin ribbons swirling down the drain like it was nothing.
They opened the medicine cabinet, grabbed the alcohol. Deep breath. Pour. The liquid hit the cuts and Rayne shuddered, a hiss ripped out of them, but they didn’t stop until the bottle felt noticeably lighter. Who the hell knows what they’d trodden through on that blind, stupid pilgrimage stumbling around in the dark like a drunk idiot.
They set the bottle back like it hadn’t burned them, grabbed a towel, patted the foot dry, then reached for proper bandages. Their fingers moved with practiced efficiency now—fold, stretch, wrap—until the gauze sat snug and correct.
Then they started to clean, erasing their presence except for the used medical supplies. The toilet lid. The floor. Even the faint smudges on the mirror where their hands had braced.
Each swipe was careful, deliberate, folding the cloth over itself to trap the stains like secrets.
When they were done, the rag went into the laundry basket—just another piece of dirty camp fabric, nothing more.
The gauze was tight. The shoes were clean.
The washroom was clean.
Rayne felt something loosen in their chest, like the fog finally thinning. The static in their skull dulled. Not gone, but quieter.
They stepped out of the bathroom, easing the door shut with a soft click that seemed louder than it should’ve. Their feet ached steady beneath the gauze, every step a low, dragging burn that flared sharp when their weight shifted wrong.
The vent.
They needed a vent.
Vent, where art thou?
Warm air would help the Vans dry—maybe even make them wearable again by morning. Rayne drifted toward the girls’ bunk room and found one along the baseboard, low to the floor, humming faintly. They set the shoes beside it, toe to heel, the faint blood stains already drying to brown.
They lingered a moment longer, knuckles brushing the nearest bunk, before snagging a pair of clean camp socks from the pile.
Fuzzy socks. White, plastered with rainbow dinosaur footprints. They clashed horribly with the long-sleeved camo shirt and brown sweatpants Rayne had been stubbornly wearing—layers better suited for a November chill than the humid throat-grip heat of Isla Nublar.
They didn’t care. Not really. Except for one thing: they dug into their bag and swiped on a fresh line of deodorant. Sweat smell was unacceptable. Rayne could live with pain, mismatched clothes, and heat pressing down like a wet blanket—but not reeking like a gym locker.
Rayne grabbed their journal, tucking it under one arm, and slipped out of the room. The muffled chatter of the others bled through the hall, a tangle of voices rising and falling over each other. Rayne followed the sound of groan and laughter.
Rayne walked in just as Cowgirl shot up from the floor, arms flung wide.
“I am the Candy Land queen! Bow before me, peasants!” she bellowed, voice booming like a victory horn.
Sunglasses went all in, dropping to one knee with a dramatic flourish, laughing as he exaggerated the bow. Eyesore and Bright Eyes giggled, Eyesore, naturally, recording every second. Vampy sat nearby, awkward, half-smiling. Rayne’s eyes scanned the room—Long Hair was nowhere to be seen.
Rayne eased into a loveseat a few feet away, close enough to catch the game’s chatter but far enough to be left alone. They opened their journal and began to write their daily letter.
Dear Rowan,
It was a bad day. Woke up like this—always happens when I go somewhere hot. Need to get adjusted. Hopefully the fog will be gone by tomorrow. We visited the Mamenchisauruses today. Fed them. I also met a park worker who reminded me a lot of Ol’ Man Winisan.
Had the thought to call Marisol or Aunt Jazz, but I thought better of it. They’re probably enjoying their time away from me, spending it together without me getting in the way.
It wasn’t that bad of an episode—much milder than usual. Maybe it’s a sign my body is finally getting with the program and will stop being a pain in my ass.
It’s been almost half a week since I’ve been at this camp, and my opinions keep changing every day. Well… not about everyone. I hope it brings you some joy that I’ve made a sort of friend. We mostly just talk dino facts to each other—it’s Bright Eyes. Apparently, after you save a kid, they get attached.
The group around the board game started packing up, but Rayne couldn’t focus. Cowgirl was bouncing on her toes, talking a mile a minute about scary stories and the campfire, her words smearing together. All Rayne could hear was:
Campfire. Campfire. Campfire. Fire. Fire. Fire.
Smoke clawed at their lungs. Their arm—it was so cold. But no, when they looked, it was on fire.
Fire. Fire. Fire.
Screams erupted. Every voice blurred together, high and shrill. They couldn’t breathe. The world narrowed to heat, smoke, the shriek of everything around them.
Rayne snapped out of it when Long Hair and Eyesore started to yell at each other Eyesore ignoring Long Hairs no that she didn’t want to be on your dumb fucking channel just because your famous doesnt mean you get to order me around!
Eyesore made offended noises while Cowgirl and Bright Eyes tried to run interference. Sunglasses cheered them on, and Vampy looked like a deer in headlights, water glinting in his eyes.
Finally, they all moved outside. Long Hair led the way, carrying the sketchbook she’d brought to their hidden spot, but she walked past the fire pit to the edge of the balcony. The rest gathered around the fire, and Rayne felt a quiet relief—they’d been forgotten, left alone for once.
As I was saying, Bright Eyes and I are sorta friends now. Marisol and Aunt Jazz should get me a trophy for that—they’d probably get all teary-eyed and put on a show just to annoy me. I miss them. And Elijah. And Esmarie. The cats. And Cornelius. I’ll call them Friday it the day when we are guaranteed a free day and Minyard and Dave said we are free to call anybody we want. It in two days.
From,
R.E.D