Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Day ???
7:39 PM Thursday July 14th, 2009

The room was still, except for the soft crackle of the record player in the corner. Joni Mitchell’s “River”¹ played, her singing slow and sad, like she wanted to cry but couldn’t. The music made the room not feel so empty, even though it was.

A clock ticked behind it all, every second feeling too loud.

Pages turned. A pen scraped and tapped on the desk — scratch, scratch. Tap. The tip stopped and hovered, like it couldn’t decide what to do next. When it moved again, it left spots of ink, little puddles from waiting too long.

The letter started like this:

Dear Rowan,

The new therapist they sent me to says I should…

The rest of the line got scratched out hard. The paper wrinkled where the pen dug in. The scratching was louder than the music for a second.

The voice hummed low, matching the song without thinking: “I wish I had a river I could skate away on…” The whisper cracked a little on the last word.

The pen tried again:

…try writing. To deal with all my—

Big messy lines scratched through the rest. The pen tapped twice. The record popped softly. Another bit of the song floated in: “…teach my feet to fly.”

The voice hummed again, quiet, trying to copy the words:

“But I’m so hard to handle, I’m selfish and I’m sad.”

The pen moved, slower now:

—feelings. I don’t know how to do that, and I don’t want to bug you with my problems. You’re the little brother. I’m supposed to help you, not dump stuff on you. I should be the one who knows things, not you. I wish—

Thick scratches covered the words until they were just black marks.

Anyway, I don’t know how long this therapist will last. The last ones didn’t. They just gave me medicine and said I was “done” and I don’t think that counts as helping. This one hasn’t made me talk about…

More scribbles, darker this time. The pen pressed too hard, almost tearing the paper.

Sorry. I shouldn’t say that. I know it’s not nice to bring it up.

The last notes of “River” faded. The record clicked softly as the needle found the next song. Joni Mitchell again — “A Case of You”² — warmer, but still quiet, the guitar soft like someone whispering.

The humming came back, a little stronger, the words just barely whispered:

“I could drink a case of you, darling,
And I would still be on my feet.
I would still be on my feet.”

The pen scratched again, in rhythm with the music:
The new family hasn’t been awful yet. But they will. They always do. People act nice first and then they change…

The voice whispered with the music again, almost like it was talking to itself:
“Oh, you’re in my blood like holy wine,
You taste so bitter and so sweet.”

The writer hummed softly, barely more than a breath, their voice weaving gently with the guitar’s strum:

“I met a woman, she had a mouth like yours,
She knew your life, she knew your devils and your deeds.”

The pen hesitated, then moved carefully:

The other kids here are okay. One is like me. We decided not to fight, so we have a truce. Our kind needs to stick together. The house even has a library. It’s the best place ever and I've read a book series. I like it a lot and I have a new favorite character.

They let me borrow the platine vinyle³. I can use it in my room if I’m careful with it. I don’t know if you know l’anglais⁴ or not. Maman spoke it best so she should have taught you. Papa didn’t like talking in l’anglais and avoided it as much as possible.

The writer hummed again, catching the melody with a fragile smile:

“Oh, I would drink a case of you, darling.”

The pen scratched steadily as the song played on, words and music threading together.

The words are very confusing! But it’s important for me to practice! The others can’t read l’anglais — they only speak québécois⁵. So it’s my code for now! I’ll have to come up with something else when the others can read l’anglais.

My hand is tired so this is where the letter ends. I still don’t get why the therapist tells me to write to you. You will never get this letter, but I suppose it wasn’t terrible. Oh, and the book I read was Harry Potter et le Prince de Sang‑Mêlé⁶.

Love,
R.E.D⁷

The pen lifted slowly, breaking contact with the paper. The camera would pull back to reveal a worn brown leather journal, its first page filled with uneven, sprawling handwriting. Crossed-out words and jagged lines marred the page, but only deepened its raw honesty—like scars etched into skin.

A slender, pale hand — marked by a scattering of tiny moles — reached out, fingers curling gently around the journal’s edge. With a soft sigh, the book snapped shut, the quiet thud echoing in the stillness of the room.

Day -28
3:57 PM Tuesday April 24th, 2015

The door to the bedroom swung open with a sharp creak, the hinges complaining like old bones. A gust of hallway air — cooler and carrying the faint smell of fried plantains from the kitchen — slipped in before the door was shut softly, not slammed. Slamming would be rude.

A bookbag hit the floor with a dull thud. The newly fourteen-year-old crossed the room, sneakers scuffing against the worn hardwood, and dropped to one knee beside the desk. From the bottom drawer, they pulled up the false panel, the key warm from where it had hung against their skin all day. A quick twist, a muted click, and the secret compartment opened. The journal came out carefully, its spine cracked and corners fraying, and was placed on the desk like something sacred.

The pen was set precisely one inch above the journal’s edge, ritualistic. The iPod — still warm from charging — clicked on. The screen’s blue glow lit up the dim room, catching the lines of posters tacked unevenly to the walls. Headphones went in.

The Arctic Monkeys bled into their ears. *Do I Wanna Know?*⁸. The low hum of the bass threaded with the ticking of the old wall clock. Outside, a car door slammed. Someone laughed faintly, maybe a neighbor. 

The pen finally touched paper.

Dear Rowan,

My school day was shit, thanks for asking.

A sharp huff of laughter broke out, but died as quickly as it came, replaced by a low groan. Their jaw ached when they moved it, the bruise already blooming dark under their fingertips.

I forgot my ring. The ring. Idiot move, I know. How do you forget the one thing you never forget? And, naturally, José had to make it worse — smug, stupid José, right on cue. Normally, I ignore him, like I’ve told you before. But today? No. Not today.

So yeah. I might’ve punched him. A couple of times. And threw a chair at him. He’s fine. Don’t start with me — I can practically see you glaring at me with Dad’s sad green puppy-dog eyes.

I wish I knew what your—

The pen carved black slashes through the half-formed words, over and over, until the paper shivered under the weight of the ink. A breath followed, sharp, catching on the edge of their teeth.

The school won’t expel me — apparently miracles are real — but I’m suspended for the rest of the year. The crisse de cave⁹ swung at me first, on camera, in front of half the school, so he can choke on that. Idiot.

Anyway, sorry, Petit Arc-en-ciel¹⁰, for not writing sooner. It’s been a month. You know why. That time of year always… wrecks me. Picking up a pen feels like screaming into a void, and I can’t stand it when I know you’ll never answer back.

Jazz tried to fix it. Took me for ice cream. Marisol, meanwhile, made my favorite dinner. It was a nice way to spend the day that I los-

The words after were scratched out in frantic lines of black ink. The pen hovered, untouched, for several long minutes. A soft humming drifted quietly, weaving along with the current song’s lyrics.

Over dinner, they told me about this new summer camp. Dearing’s brilliant idea. Two months in Nublar’s northern woods. Barely any staff. Practically kissing the restricted zone.

Naturally, Marisol wants me to go. “Get out of your shell.” “Make friends.” “Enjoy your youth.” I can hear her voice saying it, clear as day. Aunt Jazz was also on board for the idea, wanting me to experience something special and make some memories.

And… fine. I said yes. Not for me. For them. I already put them through enough. And plus they might enjoy some alone time together. They're going to get married next winter.

So yep me and a group of other brats, adults and in the great outdoors for 2 months. At least it’s still Isla Nublar. I’m just not shadowing Jazz in the lab or helping Marisol translate for tourists this time.

Maybe it won’t be awful. Maybe there’ll be someone my age. The pamphlet said eight to fifteen, so it can’t all be screaming children. And apparently, they’re only giving me this golden ticket because Auntie saved the park’s ass again.

Some idiot let invasive weeds spread in the grazing fields. The trikes — naturally, one of the park’s biggest draws — ate them. Got sick. Quarantine sick. Guests barred, fields shut down, chaos everywhere. Jazz figured out the cure, ran the quarantine, cleaned up the disaster. Finally, they gave her the recognition she should’ve had years ago. Being head vet for every small-to-medium herbivore on Nublar isn’t easy, but she’s great!

So yeah. I’m being shipped to Camp Hell. Think Bunk’d¹² — swap the Kikiwaka¹³ campfire monster for actual dinosaurs.

Wish me luck.

Love,
R.E.D

The pen stilled, lifted from the paper, ink pooling at its nib. The room felt heavier for a moment, the soft hum of the iPod filling the air as the last chords of the song faded. Somewhere below, a floorboard groaned, followed by the muffled clang of a pot lid from the kitchen. Marisol must have started dinner.

Then—knock, knock, knock.
Three gentle raps at the bedroom door.

“Entre. [Come in]” The voice called, and the rolling chair spun around to greet the woman standing in the doorway.

The door opened with a soft creak, a sliver of warm hallway light spilling into the dim room. Aunt Jazz stood framed in the doorway, her presence as precise as ever. Her black hair was twisted into its usual neat knot, not a single strand loose, and her dark green eyes swept the room with quiet calculation. The soft grey sweater she wore clung just enough to suggest she hadn’t bothered changing after work; the loose black slacks paired with it spoke of comfort chosen deliberately, not carelessly.

She crossed the room without a word, her footsteps whispering over the hardwood, and held out a small bundle — a bag of frozen fruit wrapped in a dish towel. Perching on the edge of the bed beside Rayne’s desk, she offered it silently.

Rayne’s hand, sun-browned and freckled like a scattered constellation, took the offering. They pressed the cold against their jaw, wincing when the sting bit deep into the swelling.

“Mon cygne¹³,” Jazz murmured softly, eyes narrowing as they studied Rayne’s face. “Why did you get into a fight with that boy?”

“He hit me first. So it wasn’t a fight. It was self-defense,” Rayne said quickly, leaning back in the chair, shrinking a little under her stare.

“That’s not what I asked.”

Rayne exhaled sharply through their nose, tilting their head back with a long, practiced sigh. “Just… a bad day. That’s all.”

The words slid out smooth, a lie dressed up neat and believable.

Aunt Jazz didn’t blink. “Okay. Why was it a bad day?”

Rayne hesitated, fingers flexing against the cold pack. “I… forgot my ring. You know how I fidget. Not having it just… screwed everything up.”

Jazz tilted her head slightly. “And why did you forget it?”

“I was in a rush.”

“You woke up early.”

“Well, I—” Rayne’s voice tripped, stammering. “I was… doing a thing and got distracted, okay?”

“Mon cygne.” Rayne refused to give in.

“You’re nervous,” Jazz said evenly. “Is this about the camp?”

“…Maybe,” Rayne muttered, staring at the ceiling.

Jazz’s voice softened, but only slightly. “You don’t have to go. But you’re always by yourself, Rayne. You never talk to anyone outside the family. I’m worried how you’ll function as an adult if you keep going like this. Your social skills are—”

“Not that bad,” Rayne cut in, straightening up.

Jazz arched a brow, her voice even. “You called our last guest a cheating gold digger. To his face. Before even saying hello.”

“Well, he was—” Rayne muttered, jaw tightening. Esmarie had deserved better than that piece of shit anyway.

“And you rehearse your takeout orders five times in your head, ten times out loud, before even picking up the phone.”

Rayne froze, mouth open, caught mid-defense.
The stare followed — sharp, unblinking, unrelenting.

“Okay, fine. Maybe it’s… a bit bad,” they admitted, shoulders sinking as they slouched deeper into the chair. The cold bag of fruit pressed harder against their jaw, grounding them against the sting of both pain and honesty.

The corner of Jazz’s mouth lifted — not quite a smile, but close enough to pass. “You’re either so nervous you can’t get a word out… or so blunt you offend everyone you speak to.”

Rayne sighed, fingers drumming on the armrest, eyes flicking toward the darkened window. “It’s not just the people that’s bothering me, Matante¹⁴. It’s just… I’ve never been away from home this long. Not since—”
The words snagged, then dissolved into a rough exhale. “Since I came here. And it feels stupid. Childish.”

Jazz tilted her head, her expression unreadable in the low light. “You are a child.”

“I’m just… scared, I guess,” Rayne murmured, voice softer now. “Scared something will change while I’m gone. Or something’ll happen, and I won’t be here when you need me.”

Her sharp green eyes softened, the usual cool calculation slipping for a moment. A small, tired smile tugged at her lips — and Rayne noticed, as they always did, the faint smudge where her lipstick was just slightly uneven. No doubt from kissing Mari before she came upstairs. Aunt Jazz was always meticulous, except for moments like this.

“Rayne,” Jazz said, her voice warm but edged with firmness, “you are the most caring child I’ve ever met. But you need to start worrying about yourself once in a while. This? This is one of those times. You’ve been holed up in here like a hermit for months. It’s time to go outside, talk to people your age, maybe even enjoy yourself a little. Be a teenager with other teenagers.”

Her brow arched, the warning sharp despite the faint smile tugging at her lips. “Just no drugs or alcohol.”

Rayne let out a sound caught between a snort and a groan. “Yes, Matante¹⁴. No illegal substances, no raging camp parties in the middle of dinosaur valley. Got it.”

A quiet chuckle escaped Jazz — rare, low, almost fond. Her hand came to rest on Rayne’s shoulder, cool and steady, the faint edge of her promise ring pressing through their shirt. “If anything happens, you call me or Mari. Any time. I’ll be a few hours away, but I’ll leave work immediately. We may not be in the same lab or the same hotel this summer, but we’re still on Nublar. And we can video call whenever you want.”

Rayne nodded, quiet. “Okay.”

Jazz tilted her head slightly, those sharp green eyes narrowing just enough to cut through the silence. “Now… what exactly did this boy do to earn all that?”

“He hit me first,” Rayne muttered.

“Yes, yes, details, details.” Jazz waved her hand in a small circle. “But why? What pushed it to that?”

Rayne’s jaw tightened. “He was mocking Matilda. Again. About… her eating disorder.”

Jazz’s expression didn’t shift, but Rayne caught the flicker in her eyes — that restrained, measured flash of anger. “And you?”

“I insulted him. Told him to stop.”

“Reasonable.”

“He didn’t like that.”

“No, I imagine not.”

Rayne took a breath. “He hit me in the jaw.”

Jazz’s brows lifted a fraction. “And?”

“And then,” Rayne began, each word deliberate, “I punched him. Twice. In the kidney. Uppercut when he doubled over. And… when he was down, I might have grabbed the nearest chair and… kept going. Until someone pulled me off.”

A long pause.

Jazz’s lips curved — not a smile, not exactly, but something faintly amused despite herself. “Ah. Well. At least you were thorough.”

Rayne shrugged, the cold pack still pressed against their jaw. “I followed the wisdom of a good friend. Let them hit you once, then it counts as self defense when you hit them back.”

A low sigh escaped Jazz, the sound threaded with both exasperation and reluctant amusement. Her hand reached out, fingers deft as she plucked the now-slumping bag of frozen fruit from Rayne’s grasp. “Come on,” she said, rising to her feet with the unhurried grace of someone who’d already decided her argument wasn’t worth having. “Dinner’s almost ready, and you can tell the others your grand tale of justified violence.”

Rayne squinted up at her. “Others?”

“Esmarie and Elijah decided to visit.”

Rayne groaned, tipping their head back against the chair. “Ah. That explains the racket coming from the kitchen. Marisol sounds like she’s trying to juggle cookware again.”

A faint huff of a laugh left Jazz as she crossed to the door, her shadow stretching long across the hardwood. “She’s a little behind schedule.”

Rayne pushed themself out of the chair, the cold pack slipping onto the desk with a dull thud. “Let’s see if we can help her set the table before she burns the kitchen down.”

Jazz raised a brow and gestured for Rayne to take the lead, her long fingers flicking forward in a silent command as they approached the stairs. “After you, Mon cygne. If I let you walk behind me, you’ll drag your feet until we’re eating at midnight.”

Rayne muttered something under their breath but started down the steps, the polished wood creaking underfoot. Warm light spilled up from below, along with the sharp hiss of something frying and Marisol’s cheerful humming threading through the sounds of pots clattering.

The scent hit halfway down the staircase — citrus, garlic, and something briny riding on the heat. Rayne inhaled, tilting their head. “What is she making?”

“I have no idea,” Jazz admitted, her voice calm but tinged with mild curiosity as she followed. “Judging by the smell… something with fish.”

Rayne’s mouth quirked in thought. “Oh, maybe ceviche de corvina¹⁵. She made that once before, remember? When Esmaire brought home that whole cooler of bass and nobody knew what to do with them?”

Jazz’s brow softened, just barely, at the memory. “Hopefully, Mon cygne. If it’s ceviche, at least the kitchen will survive.”

Rayne let out a breathless huff of laughter, pushing off the doorframe as they stepped into the kitchen to see the chaos their aunt’s fiancé was surely creating in the kitchen.

Day -17

4:12 PM Thursday, May 5th, 2015

Dear Rowan,

Let it be known that doing your schooling on a computer is a balance of extreme boredom, frustration, or elation. Sometimes all three.

Merci mon dieu¹⁶ Aunt Jazz and Marisol need really good Wi‑Fi so they can do their jobs on Isla Nublar while I’m stuck in Montréal for the school year. They still have to leave for a few weeks every month, but that’s the life of a dinosaur vet and translator — kind of hard to fix a trike with a limp over a Zoom call or take care of any cultural misunderstandings from about 6,000km away.

Online classes aren’t the worst, though. At least I can mute the teacher, zone out, and make paper airplanes when I’m supposed to be “reviewing” math. It’s hard to care about algebra when there’s paper to fold.

Sometimes I wonder if I should just keep doing this — online school, year-round — so Jazz and Mari can stay on Nublar full-time. No more being split between two countries. 

…Hmm. I’ll shelve the thought for later.

Nothing else to report, Petit Arc‑en‑ciel. I’ll make the next letter less boring.

Love,
R.E.D.

Day -11

6:48 PM Wednesday, May 11th, 2015

Dear Rowan,

The cats are tormenting Cornelius again. But as always, she remains unbothered. I think Stone and River are trying to see if they can get a reaction out of the poor lizard. Of course, for Stone and River to be here, Esmarie and Elijah must be visiting again. Elijah got a haircut — he looks absolutely adorable.

Is this what you’d—

Scratched out in heavy black lines.

Love,
R.E.D

Day -9

5:06 AM Friday, May 13th, 2015

Rowan,

The nightmares are back. They always come when I’m stressed — you know that.

I saw—

Scratched out in heavy, jagged lines.

It’s the same as always.

R.E.D

Day -6

8:43 PM — Monday, May 16th, 2015

Dear Rowan,

This… this isn’t working. I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry. I can’t get the words out — they just sit there in my head and refuse to move, and every time I try to force them, it feels wrong.

I think this might be my last letter for a while. Maybe when I’m at camp, I’ll have something new to say. Maybe then the words won’t feel so heavy, like I’m dragging them through mud just to get them on the page.

It shouldn’t be this hard. I’ve been writing to you for six years — six years — and now, suddenly, I can’t even string together a paragraph without feeling like I’m suffocating.

How pathetic is that? If I can’t write, how are you supposed to see any of this? How are you supposed to…

Several words are scratched out in thick, angry lines of ink, the page creased and warped where the pen pressed too hard.

—R.E.D

Chapter Text

Day 1

Rayne’s summer began the same way it had for the past three years — crammed into an airplane bound for Isla Nublar.

They knew the routine by now. You either lucked out — a half-decent seat, neighbors who didn’t smell like day-old fast food, maybe even a tiny cup of ginger ale if the flight attendants were feeling charitable — or you got the nightmare package: five screaming toddlers, a family feud loud enough to rattle the overhead bins, and some ostie de cave¹ who decided the plane washroom² was his personal Airbnb for the whole flight.

This year? Definitely the second one.

Marisol, ever un petit rayon de soleil³, was stuck in the dreaded middle seat, her usual megawatt smile stretched tight like a cracked balloon. Jazz sat in the aisle seat, posture perfect and expression blank, eyes unfocused like she was floating somewhere else — probably daydreaming herself out of this chaos.

Rayne, wedged against the window, was one more sharp scream from the tantrum throwing 5 year old away from asking a flight attendant for a fistful of Advil and something strong enough to knock them out. Or just skipping the polite requests and slamming their head against the window until they passed out.

They didn’t inherit Jazz’s inhuman ability to vanish into daydreams when the world went sideways. Their coping method was much simpler.
With fingers that shook a little from trying to stay calm, Rayne dug their silver iPod out of their hoodie pocket, untangled the eternal knot of earbuds, and popped one into Marisol’s ear.

The playlist they’d built together — a slow-growing archive of 276 songs — filled their ears with something soothing and familiar, slicing through the cacophony of cries, shouting, and airplane hum.
Rayne glanced at the number of songs with a small flicker of pride before sinking back against the window, turning the music all the way up.

Marisol let out a soft laugh of relief, leaning closer until their shoulders touched. “Thank you, nene.”⁴

After a few more hours, the scenery outside the plane window began to change — the dull gray drizzle of Montréal replaced by the dense, sticky clouds of Costa Rica.

It was like stepping from a fridge into someone’s armpit. A very sweaty, stinky armpit that had clearly never heard of deodorant.

From San José, they took a bus to the coast. That part had already blurred in Rayne’s mind: head pressed to the window, earbuds in, brain fully checked out. Marisol had tried to make small talk — bless her heart — but between the jet lag and the tourist behind them loudly ranking every palm tree like it was the Miss World of foliage, Rayne had exactly zero patience left to give.

The bus smelled like old air-conditioning and wet fabric. The seats had less legroom than a hamster cage. They kept telling themself the coast would make it worth it.

It almost did.

The ocean slammed into their senses the second they hit the docks — an endless stretch of blue, shimmering under a sun already trying to roast them all alive. The horizon looked like a watercolor painting gone rogue, colors bleeding into clouds. The air smelled like brine, diesel, and fried plantains from some stand nearby — which shouldn’t have worked together but somehow totally did.

For a few minutes, they forgot the heat, forgot the fact their spine now had a permanent indentation shaped like a bus seat. They even caught themself mentally drafting a letter to Rowan — something about the gulls screaming like tiny demons, the way the water sparkled so bright it hurt to look at, the ridiculous contrast between all that natural beauty and the chaos of the docks.

Then some kid dropped a juice box and screamed like he’d lost a limb. Reality reengaged.

They unloaded near the ferry. Jazz, ever efficient, juggled three duffels like she had extra limbs. Marisol was already deep in conversation with a dock worker, her Spanish fluid and warm, like something you’d want to bottle and sip on during a thunderstorm. Rayne could understand maybe a third of it, if they really concentrated. They didn’t.

Technically, they were supposed to board a smaller ferry arriving thirty minutes later — the one meant for campers heading straight to the northernmost dock and then to Camp Cretaceous itself. But thanks to Marisol (and her supernatural ability to bulldoze red tape with one polite but firm phone call), Rayne had been granted an exception.

Perks of having a not-quite-aunt who was practically a celebrity in the Devonian United Members — or, as the acronym cursed them, D.U.M.

D.U.M. was basically Jurassic World’s cross between a staff intranet and a high-stakes group chat: equal parts emergency alert system, supply chain, and gossip ring. Considering how massive Isla Nublar was — all jungle, electric fences, and the horrors of customer service— it made sense. When coworkers were scattered across ranger posts, security points, and main street D.U.M. helped people stay connected.

Marisol was a legend on the platform. So when she asked to personally drop off her fiancé’s ward at camp, no one argued.

Apparently, Camp Cretaceous had a “surprise activity” planned for the campers — which sounded like something Rayne would either like or hate. Rayne had been told they needed to show up by 11 to claim their bunk and fill out a few forms, but otherwise, they were allowed the detour.

Freedom with a time limit.

Rayne glanced at the watch on Aunt Jazz’s wrist. They had enough time to get to the hotel, drop Rayne off, hand over their stuff, and start the long, winding journey north.

They’d been here before. Isla Nublar wasn’t new. From the ferry, you could hop the monorail that sliced across cliffs and through jungle, silver and sleek like a futuristic snake. Sometimes you’d get lucky and see a migrating herd — triceratops. Sometimes you were stuck between a crying toddler and a businessman who smelled like sadness and expensive cologne.

They passed the lagoon — where all the money went — and then hit the visitor center. A massive brown-and-glass triangle, like a luxury eco-pyramid that doubled as a dinosaur cathedral. Main Street was somehow both flashy and sanitized, with shops that didn’t quite smell like anything. The richer stayed in hotels that looked directly into the lagoon. The really rich had condos so tucked away they came with private handlers.

They passed all of it.

The monorail eventually docked near the residential district, where the park staff lived. Less glossy, more practical. Keycards required. Quiet.

The hotel room was like every other one Marisol, Rayne and Jazz had stayed in the past three summers. Same stiff sheets, same bland art that tried and failed to be tropical. Rayne was ninety percent sure the same fake palm tree had followed them from room to room like a haunted potted plant.

But the air-conditioning worked. The towels were clean. The mini fridge didn’t smell like death. So in Rayne’s personal ranking system, it beat a few of the sketchier places they’d lived in as a kid.

The bedspread was covered in vaguely floral shapes that clashed aggressively with the seafoam-green curtains. A tiny welcome basket sat on the dresser: three granola bars, two drink vouchers, and a printed Comic Sans welcome note. They judged it. Moved on.

Jazz dropped her bag down with the precision of a SWAT team member, zipper facing out, perfectly centered.

“Bathroom’s clean. Towels folded. I don’t see any bugs,” she said, brushing a strand of black hair behind her ear.

Marisol flopped face-first onto the bed with a theatrical groan, her red curls spilling out like a sunbeam explosion. “We especially don’t want bugs,” she moaned into the pillow, “since our very heroic ward won’t be around to smush them for us.”

“Which means you will be smushing them,” Jazz said dryly, “not scaling the counter and trying to shout them to death.”

A ghost of a smirk tugged at her mouth.

Rayne stood in the doorway, arms crossed, heart doing the emotional equivalent of buffering. The clock ticked too loudly. The ceiling fan spun in lazy, taunting circles. They could leave. Right now. Just walk out and say they had the flu or a religious objection to campfires. Probably there was a waiver they could forge.

Marisol’s phone buzzed. She rolled over with a grin so blinding it could’ve charged the room. “Esmarie says Cornelius is being an absolute princess. She’s claimed the whole couch.”

She flipped the phone toward Rayne.

Rayne stepped forward and took it. There was Cornelius — their bearded dragon — sprawled belly-up across a velvet cushion like they owned the place. A fuzzy toy mouse was tucked under one claw, like they’d won it in a duel.

Rayne handed the phone back. “At least someone’s happy.”

“Corny’s in good hands,” Marisol said gently. “So are we. You don’t need to worry.”

Rayne didn’t answer right away. They looked out the window. The breeze swayed the palm fronds like they didn’t know the world was full of teeth.

“Mmhm,” they said finally, which was easier than I’ll worry anyway.

☽─━★─━★─━★☾

Technically, the dock was just a slab of concrete and very boring, but to Darius, it felt like the start of everything. The water glittered, the island loomed lush and wild in the background, and his heart was hammering with the thrill of it all—because this was Isla Nublar. The real Isla Nublar. And he was finally here.

A man in a red shirt stepped forward with a grin. His brown curls poked out under a yellow bandana, and his boots looked barely worn in.

“Welcome to Isla Nublar, campers!” he called. “You are the chosen few—the first kids in the entire world to ever experience the awesomeness that is Camp Cretaceous.”

Darius’s eyes were already bouncing around—taking in the dock, the jungle beyond, the other kids standing beside him. A pale kid was hunched over the edge, puking dramatically into the water. Dave winced, but covered it with a sympathetic smile.

“I know, the trip from the mainland was rough on some. Hello, Ben.”

The pale boy—Ben—lifted a trembling thumbs-up without ever raising his head. His whole body hunched over the railing like the ocean had betrayed him personally.

Darius winced in sympathy. He knew the feeling. A memory floated up—him at eight years old, gripping the edge of a tiny fishing boat with his dad, trying not to hurl into the cooler. It had taken him nearly four hours to get his sea legs. Ben probably hadn’t even had that much time.

Still, at least he was on the island now. Just like Darius. And things were only going to get better from here!

“But you did it!” the man pressed on. “I’m Dave, head counselor. You heard that right—head honcho, big shot-.”

Before Mr Dave could puff up his ego any further, the sharp screech of tires cut through the air, snapping Darius’s head toward the road. A park ranger truck rolled in, stopping with just enough flair to make it look cool without being dangerous. The door flew open, and a woman jumped out with the kind of smooth confidence that said this definitely wasn’t her first dramatic entrance.

Her voice reached them before she did.
“Ah, so sorry I’m late! Welcome, campers! I’m Roxie, head counselor of Camp Cretaceous!”

Her accent caught Darius’s attention immediately—warm and interesting, not quite like anything he heard every day. He filed the detail away, already wondering where she was from. Somewhere cool, probably.

Two head counselors?

He blinked in surprise, looking between them. Roxie’s whole vibe felt different—way more in command. Her camp shirt was neatly tucked into utility pants, and her dark hair was pulled back in a no-nonsense way that still looked good in the heat. She strolled over and leaned on Dave’s shoulder like this was a skit they’d practiced a hundred times.

“Well,” Mr Dave said, already looking like he regretted it, “it’s sort of a co-head counselor situation.”

“Is it?” Ms Roxie asked, one brow raised.

Darius could barely stand still. His brain was firing on all cylinders, scanning every detail—the campers around him, the counselors’ body language, even the distant rustle of jungle leaves beyond the dock. Every second felt like it might be important later. Like it might mean something. He’d studied this place for years—read every article, watched every leaked behind-the-scenes clip, memorized old park schematics that had probably changed ten times since. But none of that compared to actually being here.

This was real. This was now.

Mr Dave kept talking, his enthusiasm bouncing along the dock like a beach ball. “Some of you won contests, some of you got VIP invites—but for the next two months, all of you are getting the five-star treatment. We’ve lined up behind-the-scenes tours, exclusive access to parts of the park the public never sees…”

A girl in soft pinks and pastels already had her phone out, filming everything with practiced angles. Next to her, a tall girl in track gear ducked her head, camera-shy. Darius gave them a small, polite wave, trying to seem chill—even though the heat had already glued his shirt to the back of his neck. It was humid and sticky, but he didn’t care. Honestly, it probably felt perfect to the dinosaurs.

Ms Roxie had moved on to listing camp activities—kayaking, climbing and main street something something. Darius wanted to listen, but he could feel the question burning in his chest, fighting its way out.

“Dinosaurs!” he blurted, unable to help himself. “Are we gonna see actual dinosaurs?”

There was a beat of silence, then Ms Roxie looked up from her clipboard, surprised but smiling. “Yes… Darius. Plenty of dinosaurs.”

His chest swelled, heart doing cartwheels. It was happening. After everything—the late nights studying for that video game the rush he got after finishing the level. He was going to see them.

The others cheered. Even the pale, seasick kid managed to sit a little straighter.

Darius grinned and straightened his shoulders. 

“So,” Ms Roxie called out, her voice rising over the buzz of the group, “ready for the experience of a lifetime?”

“Absolutely!” said the girl with the camera, spinning around like the dock was her personal red carpet. “But I’m gonna need that speech a little shorter. And really lean into the majesty of this place.”

And just like that, the atmosphere shifted. Darius’s grin faltered. The moment had been magic—pure, cinematic magic—and she’d stepped right on it like a fallen leaf. Still, he didn’t blame her too much. Everyone showed excitement differently. Some people blurted out “Dinosaurs!” like a firework going off in their chest. Others tried to direct the entire moment like they were filming their own documentary.

Mr Dave clapped his hands, either unfazed or really good at pretending to be. “Okay, let’s get the seven of you to camp!”

Ben, still looking pale and miserable, raised a shaky hand. “There are five of us.”

Mr. Dave paused mid-step, his brow furrowed. “Wait… Dino-kid,” he nodded at Darius, “Track-Star,” a gesture toward the tall athlete girl, “Internet Girl,” at the girl filming, “Barfy,” at Ben, who still looked pale, “Texas,” at the girl in cowboy boots near the back, “Doc’s kid who’s coming later…”

Darius counted along silently. That made six. Five here and one coming later.

Mr. Dave frowned. “He’s right. Where’s seven?”

Ms. Roxie flipped her clipboard again, scanning quickly—then groaned.

Before she could say anything, the whir of rotor blades cut through the humid air. A helicopter was descending nearby, kicking up a fierce gust of dust and wind that forced Darius to shield his eyes. The other campers ducked, hair flying wildly.

The sleek chopper touched down with practiced ease. A guy who looked more like a bodyguard than a chauffeur stepped out and opened the door.

And out walked him.

A boy clearly from asian decent strolled down the ramp like he’d just stepped off a private runway instead of a utility chopper. He wore a baby-pink polo, khaki shorts, and mirrored sunglasses that somehow didn’t fall off even in the wind. A designer bag was slung over one shoulder, and he towered slightly over the other campers, not even glancing at them as he made his grand entrance.

“Greetings, my dudes,” the boy announced loudly. “Kenji is here, so let the party commence!”

He tossed his heavy-looking bag straight at Ms Roxie without a second thought. She barely caught it with a grunt.

“Put this in my room,” he added, already walking toward the group like a celebrity making rounds.

Darius blinked. Seriously?

Kenji stopped right in front of him, tilting his sunglasses down just enough to lock eyes. “So… what’s your deal?” His oddly styled black hair swooshing a bit in the wind.

Before Darius could even open his mouth, Kenji’s designer bag came soaring back through the air and smacked him square in the chest. He stumbled, wheezing, his sunglasses crooked now.

Ms Roxie brushed past, dusting off her hands like she’d just taken out the trash. “Okay,” she said calmly to the group. “Let’s go.”

Darius climbed into the bed of the truck-jeep-thing, wedging himself between Kenji and the girl with the camera—Brooklynn, apparently. The engine rumbled to life. They drove for awhile Darius learned that Ben has motion sickness. Brooklynn is a famous influencer and Sammy is a fan.

The truck jolted to a stop, tires skidding slightly over the gravel trail. Darius gripped the side rail instinctively, eyes already scanning the treeline with a spark of anticipation.

Mr Dave hopped out first, already activating his taser staff. “Everyone stay put,” he called. “You’re perfectly safe.”

Naturally, that was the exact cue for the teens to lean farther out of the vehicle to see what was going on.

There was a rustle.

“Did something move?” Darius asked, shifting to get a better look. His heart wasn’t pounding with fear—it was excitement. 

Kenji rolled his eyes. “Probably just a squirrel or something. Or a leaf. Chill, nerd.”

Then, with a sudden burst of leaves, something small launched from the brush and into the back of the truck with a snarl. Gasps and yells erupted around him—except from Darius, whose jaw dropped with awe.

Kenji, however, screamed. Loudly. And fell over Sammy in the process.

“Oh my gosh!” Sammy yelped, grabbing onto Ben’s sleeve. “Is that a dinosaur? Like a real dinosaur?!”

“Of course it’s real!” Darius said, barely breathing as he stared at the tiny creature writhing in Ms Roxie’s arms. She had already moved with practiced ease, throwing a cloth over the animal and catching it mid-leap like it was a housecat gone rogue. “That’s a compsognathus!”

“Don’t get so close it could bite you. Who knows if it has rabies or something?” Ben muttered and fell on deaf ears.

Brooklynn was already filming, moving in closer with the camera. “This is insane. This thing just launched into the truck. You guys, this is not staged—I repeat, not staged!”

“Everybody, down here, quick!” Ms Roxie said, kneeling and holding the now-contained dino under her arm. Mr Dave brought over a crate and set it nearby.

“Okay,” Ms Roxie continued, “Perfect opportunity to meet one of our smallest—and most common—species here on the island.”

Darius slid to the ground so fast he scraped his knees on the truck bed. “They’re scavengers mostly, right? Like coyotes! But sometimes they’ll hunt birds or lizards if they’re desperate enough!”

“Yes! Very good, Darius,” Ms Roxie said, half-impressed, half-flustered as she worked to restrain the thrashing creature. “Their name comes from the Greek words—”

“‘Kompsos’ and ‘gnathos’—it means ‘elegant jaw!’” he cut in, eyes practically glowing. “The first fossil was found in Germany in the 1850s, and then another one in France, like, a hundred years later!”

“Dude,” Kenji muttered, backing away dramatically. “You sound like you want to marry the thing.”

“I just—It’s not every day you see one in person!” Darius replied, brushing him off without taking his eyes off the compy.

“Oh my gosh, can I touch it?” Sammy asked eagerly, reaching out but pausing just short of the creature’s scaly side. “I’ve seen pictures but it’s, like, so much cuter in real life! And the little toes—are those claws?!”

“Carefully,” Ms Roxie said, shifting her grip. “Two fingers only. And no sudden moves.”

Sammy gently brushed the side of the animal. “Oh wow, it’s warm. I didn’t think it would be warm!”

The taller girl crouched nearby, arms loosely around her knees, watching the compy with an unreadable expression. “It’s... okay”

Brooklynn was still recording, circling slowly. “So this little guy’s name again?”

“Compsognathus,” Darius and Ms Roxie said in unison.

“Well,” Ms Roxie said, holding the compy more firmly, “this one here is in the middle of changing from female to male. See that red patch on the throat?”

“Wait, changing sex?” Sammy asked, blinking fast. “Like, fully switching teams?”

“Exactly,” Ms Roxie replied. “It’s called sequential hermaphroditism. In this case, protogyny—female to male. It’s been observed in reptiles, and it showed up in the park due to some amphibian DNA that helped fill gaps in their genetic code.”

“Dinos say trans rights!” Brooklynn laughed, still recording on her own phone.

“I guess they do,” Ms Roxie chuckled. “Now—anyone else want a turn before she goes in the crate?”

“I’m good,” the athlete said darius really needs to learn her name, waving a hand but not moving. “Cool to watch though.”

Kenji made a dramatic show of stepping up. “Fine. If it makes you all feel braver, I’ll pet the overgrown rat.” He jabbed two fingers toward the compy like it was diseased.

“Be gentle—” Ms Roxie started.

But Kenji leaned close instead, baring his teeth in its face. “Raaaar! Look who’s king of the food chain now!”

The compy screeched and nearly squirmed out of her arms.

“Kenji!” Ms Roxie barked, scrambling to keep hold. “Do that again and you’re going in the crate.”

“Jeez, okay,” Kenji said, stepping back with hands raised. “Relax, I was just messing around.”

Darius frowned. “You can’t just scare them like that. They get stressed easily.”

“Wow. Dino-defense-squad over here,” Kenji muttered.

Mr Dave had just returned and began securing the crate. “All right, show’s over. Let’s get moving.”

“Wait,” Darius asked, glancing between the counselors. “If they can change sex, how does the park stop them from, you know… making babies?”

“Well,” Ms Roxie started, but Mr Dave cut in with a grin, “Once a female becomes a male, we give them a quick snip-snip ouch and im right guys? Problem solved.”

“Ouch,” Kenji muttered, crossing his legs instinctively.

Ms Roxie sighed. “Anyway, it’s easier to sterilize males than females. But we monitor the population closely.”

Darius nodded, still watching the compy through the crate’s mesh.

The truck rumbled back to life, and before long, the tall gates of Camp Cretaceous rose into view.

“Campers,” Mr Dave said from the front seat, clearly rehearsing the line in his head, “Welcome… to Camp Cretaceous.”

Darius leaned forward in his seat, heart racing—not with fear this time, but wonder.

He was finally here.

The truck rumbled to a stop just past the camp gates. Darius leaned forward, eyes wide, trying to take in every detail. But then—

A low rumble sounded behind them.

Another vehicle was approaching.

He turned, squinting through the heat shimmer rising off the road, just as a grey SUV rolled up behind their truck.

“Who’s that?” Sammy asked, shading her eyes.

“Ah,” said Ms. Roxie, glancing over her shoulder, “our other arrival.”

“Right on time!” Mr. Dave called toward the car with a wave.

The SUV parked, doors opening in unison.

Out of the driver’s side stepped a short woman with vibrant red hair, her Jurassic World uniform crisp and sun-bleached. A large patch on her chest read TRANSLATOR!, and a cluster of clipped-on name tags dangled below—each one labeled with a different language.

From the passenger side, a slightly taller teen climbed out. Her short, messy light brown hair stuck out in every direction like it had lost a battle with a seatbelt and the wind. She moved with sharp, tired energy, grabbing a battered suitcase from the back with efficiency.

Darius sat up straighter. The others craned their necks to see.

“Must be the last camper,” Brooklynn said, her camera already up and recording.

The red-haired woman strode toward the group, the sun catching on the laminated name tags that clinked softly against her translator badge.

“Dave! Roxie! How are you lot doing?” she called, flashing a wide grin.

They were all gathered now at the base of the enormous treehouse—the camp’s centerpiece—and Darius still couldn’t believe it was real. It looked like something out of a dream, all rope bridges and high platforms nestled into the canopy.

“We’re doing well, Ms. Reyes,” Roxie said with a polite nod.

“Bah, get rid of the Ms. Makes me feel old.”

“Marisol!” Dave beamed. “Great to see you. And I’m assuming this is your girl’s ward?”

“Ah, yes,” Marisol said, turning toward the teen still lingering near the SUV. “Come, come. Introduce yourself, nene.” Sammy jolts a bit at the nickname?

Nene stepped forward reluctantly, dragging her suitcase behind them with a dull whrrk of wheels on gravel.

She stopped just short of the group and gave a curt nod, one hand gripping the handle of a scuffed suitcase, the other stuffed into the front pocket of a pair of tan shorts. She wore a long-sleeved red sun shirt.

“Hi,” she said flatly. “I’m Rayne Delaire. If you can’t pronounce the last name, don’t bother.” Ah it was a nickname.

Her tone was dry, but Darius caught something else underneath—the faintest trace of an accent. Not strong, but there. French, maybe?

Marisol had one too, though hers was harder to pin down. It was like someone had stirred a bunch of accents together.

Darius blinked, trying to place it, but before he could ask, Kenji leaned over and muttered, “Well, she sounds like a ray of sunshine.”

“Alright, now that everyone’s here, let’s head inside and get settled in!” Ms. Roxie said cheerfully, already turning toward the building.

The group began to move. Darius hung back, letting the others pass while watching Rayne and Ms. Reyes share a few quiet words. A quick hug was exchanged and then Marisol climbed back into the SUV.

The engine hummed to life, and Darius stood still as she drove off, kicking up dust in her wake.

Rayne brushed past him without a word, disappearing into the building.

A second vehicle pulled up just as the first vanished around the bend. Darius turned in time to see Mr. Dave gently transfer the compy—his compy—to another staff member in a beige uniform.

The first dinosaur he’d ever seen—gone. Just like that. Darius lingered a moment longer, watching the vehicle disappear down the dusty road, before turning back toward the treehouse.

Suitcases sat open or abandoned in odd corners of the massive common room. A backpack was balanced precariously on the arm of a couch. Someone’s shoes—already kicked off—rested beneath the staircase. The campers had drifted into different corners of the building, some already scoping out rooms, others just wandering and taking everything in.

“Whoaaaaa, this place is fancy!” Sammy’s voice echoed off the high ceilings as she threw open a set of double doors and dashed through like an overly enthusiastic puppy let loose in a mansion. “There’s a fireplace! And is that—are those bean bags?!”

Darius sidestepped her as she zoomed past, already making another lap. He watched as she flung herself into one of the oversized chairs with a squeal, legs kicking wildly for a moment before she rolled off and popped back up like nothing had happened.

He smiled faintly. It was kind of amazing.

His gaze drifted upward, admiring the towering Tyrannosaurus rex skeleton that stood like a silent guardian in the middle of the room. The skull alone was bigger than his torso. He could’ve stared at it for hours—until a sharp voice yanked him back to the present.

“Ow! Watch it!”

Darius turned just in time to see Sammy backing away, hands raised in frantic apology. The taller girl in gray rubbed her forehead with a wince. One of the heavy doors beside them hung slightly ajar—looked like Sammy had swung it straight into her.

“Ice is in the freezer!” Ms. Roxie called from somewhere around the corner, not even glancing up.

The injured teen muttered something under her breath that Darius couldn’t catch. Sammy looked like she wanted to melt through the floorboards.

He winced in sympathy.

“Okay, you can explore later!” Mr. Dave called out, clapping his hands for attention. “Everyone, back to the common room!”

There was a slow shuffle of footsteps as the kids filtered back, some more reluctantly than others.

“Anyone with allergies, dietary needs, or permission forms to sign—come grab your paperwork now,” he added, lifting a small stack from a side table.

Darius didn’t need to sign anything, so he stayed put, watching as Ben, Rayne, and Brooklynn stepped forward to collect a few sheets each.

“Now that that’s handled,” Roxie said, clapping once, “everyone pick a bunk and set your things down. Girls, you’re in the Triceratops room. Boys, Ankylosaurus across the hall. Five minutes—then meet back here for introductions and a quick orientation before we start today’s activities.”

A few groans followed, but everyone turned to gather their bags.

☽─━★─━★─━★☾

Rayne grabbed their papers and started to read through them. They listed their kiwi allergy and sesame allergy. They reread to make sure it was all correct, then handed it in to Roxanne Minyard and David Wymack. While handing in the papers, they glanced at the other two’s.

The Vampire-skin boy was vegan, apparently, and needed permission to carry his medications with him. The Eyesore was pescatarian⁵, with permission to record, along with paperwork showing that she was hired to do so and allowed in most behind-the-scenes areas—with a list of where she was not allowed.

Rayne noted the information and the names on the paperwork, then muttered a polite goodbye to Head Counselor Minyard and Vice Counselor Wymack.

They walked behind the Eyesore, following her to their room for the next two months. After a short walk, Rayne glanced at the sign on the door—a very cartoony pink triceratops happily munching a plant.

The Cowgirl was chatting the ear off Long Hair, who held an ice pack to her face and wore a disgruntled expression. Rayne thought they’d heard her yell in pain a few minutes ago but had been too far away to be sure.

Cowgirl claimed the bottom bunk closest to the door and happily invited—or rather, told—Eyesore to take the top one. Long Hair took the top bunk farthest from the door, so Rayne took the middle top bunk by themselves. They set down their slightly beat-up suitcase and turned to leave. Long Hair speed-walked ahead and disappeared back into the salon⁶.

Bright Eyes, Sunglasses, and Vampy were already there. Vampy was sitting alone in a lime green loveseat with his arms around his knees. Sunglasses and Bright Eyes were sitting as far apart as possible on the L-couch.

Rayne plopped down between the two boys on the couch, watching as Long Hair froze in the doorway before silently sitting on the other loveseat beside Vampy. Cowgirl and Eyesore joined soon after, just as Minyard was about to come retrieve them.

“All right!” Wymack clapped his hands and grinned. “Let’s get some introductions going!”

The room went quiet. After a beat of awkward silence, he added, “Roxie and I can go first.”

“I’m David Wymack—call me Dave! And I’m 31!” he said proudly, a wide smile on his face.

Minyard rolled her eyes but complied with Wymack’s pleading look.
“Hello, campers. I’m Roxanne Minyard—call me Roxie, please—and I’m 29 years old.”

Sunglasses snorted and pushed his sunglasses up higher on his nose, muttering, “Old,” under his breath.

“Why don’t we start from left to right? Kenji, you’re first,” Minyard said sweetly—but with a vicious glint in her eyes.

Eyesore whipped out her camera and gleefully hit record from her spot on the other couch.

He scoffed and crossed his arms, puffing out his chest.
“Kenji Kon is my name. Go on—be impressed.”

Silence.

“Oh, come on—no one knows who I am? Daniel Kon? My dad? The big condo tycoon?”

Ah. Rayne knew exactly who this kid was.

He was banned from most of the rides on the island—and some of the monorail tours. There were lots of complaints about him in the D.U.M. group chat. They’d even made up a code for “rich children” after his visit when he was eight.

“Your age, Kenji?” Minyard asked, her voice steeped in exasperated tiredness.

He huffed in offense. “I’m fifteen.”

Rayne was next in line.

“I’m Rayne Delaire, and I’m fourteen years old. My birthday is July 19th, and I’m a Cancer,” they said in a mild panic. Just saying their name and age didn’t feel like enough. It might be rude—and being rude would reflect badly on the manners Marisol had tried so hard to teach them. And with Rayne still very anxious about not being home, the words just... spilled out.

“And my pronouns are they/them,” Rayne added quickly, a flicker of nervous energy in their voice. All the important stuff was out there now. If anyone had a problem with it—well, violence wasn’t always the answer, but for Rayne, it was often the question. And the answer was usually yes.

Thankfully, no one said a word.

The introductions kept rolling.

Bright Eyes was next.

“Nice to meet you, Rayne. Kenji. I’m Darius Bowman, and I’m 12,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Um… do we really have to say our birthdays, zodiac signs, and pronouns?” he asked Wymack, sounding more confused than anything.

“Well, you can,” Wymack replied with a grin, glancing at Minyard, who gave a small nod. “Only if you want to! No pressure or anything Dudes and Dudettes!” Rayne visibly cringed.

“Okay… um, my birthday’s August 3rd, and I think I’m a Leo?” Bright eyes added uncertainly.

Cowgirl bounced up next, practically glowing with enthusiasm. “Hi! I’m Sammy Gutierrez, also 14! My birthday’s June 2nd—I share it with my cow, Bessie. Isn’t that just the best?” She beamed like it was the coolest thing in the world.

Rayne blinked, slightly baffled. They wondered why she was so happy about that but hey who were they to judge.

Eyesore wasted no time flipping her camera. “What’s up, Brooklanders! Y’all already know this stuff, but for the new guests on the channel, I’m Brooklynn Ortega, just turned 13—March 27th—and I’m an Aries. Pronouns? She/her, duh!”

She flipped the camera toward the next person. Long hair who twitched violently and looked to be physicing herself up. Maybe she is shy? “Yasmina Faduola. 15.”

“Is that it? Come on, don’t be shy! Tell us your birthday and zodiac sign!” Eyesore pressed, smirking as she pushed the phone closer to Long Hair, who visibly stiffened.

“I’ll share what I want to share! Mind your damn business, Pinky!” Long hair snapped back pushing the pick phone out of her face, brown eyes flashing.

“Excuse me?!” Eyesore blinked, clearly caught off guard.

“Hey, hey, ladies, let’s not turn this into a fight,” Wymack stepped in quickly, hands raised like he was trying to calm a storm.

“Brooklynn, Yasmina doesn’t have to share anything she’s not comfortable with,” Minyard said firmly, pointing at Eyesore with a no-nonsense glare.

“And Yasmina, throwing insults isn’t going to solve anything. Apologize to each other.” She shifted her gaze to the older girl, waiting.

Both girls exchanged reluctant apologies, their faces scrunching up as if they’d just bitten into a lemon.

Finally, all eyes turned to Vampy.

“I’m Ben Pincus, 14… My birthday’s September 1st. I—I don’t really know my zodiac sign…” he mumbled, eyes downcast. There was a quiet sadness to him, and Rayne felt a pang of sympathy for the skinny, pale boy.

“Virgo,” Rayne said—maybe a bit too bluntly. The room went silent, everyone staring.

“Wh-what?” Ben blinked, clearly confused.

“Your sign. Virgo. That’s your zodiac, or whatever,” Rayne replied, a touch annoyed at having to repeat themselves.

“O-Oh, thanks,” Ben muttered, relief flickering in his eyes.

“Phew, now that’s over with! It’s orientation video time—wha—WHAT!” Wymack burst out, trying to hype everyone up.

After the video ordeal, the two adults herded everyone into a Jurassic World–branded vehicle. The drive was long, awkward, and quiet—except for the occasional cough or the hum of the engine. Rayne leaned against the edge, watching trees blur by and silently counting how long it would take to get there.

They pulled up to one of the lookout towers just as the sun began to lower behind the trees. If the schedule hadn’t changed, Rayne knew Sorensen’s herd would be moving to their night enclosures around now.

Sure enough, a deep rumble vibrated through the wood beneath their feet. Then came the herd like something out of a dream.

Brachiosaurus towered at the front, lumbering giants that made Rayne feel smaller than they already were. Ankylosaurus trudged beside them, tails swinging like wrecking balls. A few Stegosaurus passed through, temporary transfers, and clusters of Sinoceratops grazed at the edges.

Rayne spotted a few workers they recognized passing by on four-wheelers. Maybe they’d get to say hi. Maybe not.

Bright Eyes and Sunglasses were already bickering near the railing—Eyesore butting in with her phone, recording like they were all cast members on her personal reality show. Cowgirl was firing off a hundred questions at Wymack, barely pausing for air. Long Hair and Vampy stayed near the back, quieter, caught between awe and sensory overload.

“What are the tall ones called again?” Ben asked, voice small as he stared up at the herd.

“Rayne?” he added after a beat, almost like he was afraid to interrupt.

Rayne blinked. Was he talking to me?

“Oh. Brachiosaurus,” they said, slipping into the familiar rhythm of facts. “Their name means ‘arm lizard’—the front legs are longer than the back. Usually 12 to 13 meters tall, sometimes bigger. Around 40 to 60 tons. About 19 to 21 meters long.”

Ben nodded slowly, visibly processing—or trying to.

He pointed next at a Sinoceratops grazing near the edge of the group.

Rayne didn’t even hesitate. “Sinoceratops. It means ‘horned face from China.’ They’re around six meters long and weigh about two tons. That one’s a female—see how the frill is more rounded?”

Ben looked like he was about to faint or cry—or both. Rayne just sighed. Great. They were someone’s walking encyclopedia now. They didn’t really mind to much they were kinda bored just looking anyway.

Long hair, pointed at another dinosaur lumbering past. The bruise on her face looked darker under the sunlight. “What about that one?”

“Stegosaurus,” Rayne said. “The name means ‘roof lizard’ because the guy who found the fossil thought the plates laid flat. They don’t. They stand upright. They’re about four meters tall, ten meters long, and weigh six to seven tons.”

They pointed to the tail, steady and precise.

“The spikes? That’s called a thagomizer. Used to fight off predators. It can do serious damage—could kill if it hits the right spot.”

Yasmina nodded, interested. Ben quietly sank to the floor like the knowledge physically weighed him down.

Rayne was about to start on the Ankylosaurus—easily a favorite—when Wymack’s voice cut through the moment.

“Alright, everyone! Enough banter! It’s zipline party time!”

Rayne stiffened slightly. Great. Heights.

When their turn came, they hesitated at the platform—just for a second. The height wasn’t exactly comforting, but it wasn’t worse than being called out in front of strangers. They let Minyard strap them in.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Not really,” they muttered.

“Too bad.” Minyard grinned, then gave a push.

The ground dropped away.

The wind hit hard, catching their hair and making it even more chaotic than before, but for a moment—just a moment—it was kind of perfect. The herd below moved like living fossils, the jungle stretched out into a green blur, and the air smelled like sunlight and ferns.

They were almost certain they were the only ones not screaming.

Nice.

☽─━★─━★─━★☾

After returning to the treehouse, the campers gathered for a late dinner. Rayne approached the food table first, scanning each tray carefully. No sesame seeds on the buns, no kiwi hiding in the salad. Just burgers, fries and salad for Vampy and Eyesore probably—standard American fare. Still, it didn’t hurt to double-check. You never knew when something would try to kill you. And Rayne only brought a certain amount of Epipen’s with them.

Satisfied, they grabbed their plate and sat at the end of the long communal table. They bit into their burger just as Eyesore spun her phone around, recording like it was her full-time job.

“So, how’d you get here?” she asked, tone sugary but tight with impatience. The camera hovered close, angled for a flattering shot. “I’ve already covered everyone else’s backstory. Darius beat Jurassic World: The Game, Sammy’s family supplies all the park’s beef, Yasmina has that sponsorship, Kenji’s loaded, and Ben’s mom knows Masrani.”

Rayne didn’t answer right away. They chewed slowly, eyes locked with Eyesore’s lens, deliberately dragging it out. Eyesore’s smile flickered. Long Hair stifled a laugh behind her water bottle.

Finally, Rayne swallowed. “My aunt works here. She handled a minor crisis, got a promotion, and was given a camp ticket. She gave it to me.”

Eyesore leaned forward, not out of genuine curiosity, but because she smelled a headline. “Ooh, what does she do? Like PR or something?”

“Yeah,” Cowgirl cut in, sounding genuinely interested. “What does she do?”

“She’s the head vet for the small to medium herbivores,” Rayne replied flatly.

Bright Eyes lit up like someone had flipped a switch. “Really?! Have you seen a lot of dinosaurs?”

Rayne didn’t have to answer—thankfully, Minyard stepped in before the questions could spiral out of control.

“Now, we’ve got some ground rules to go over,” she announced, her voice cutting through the chatter and the rustling of food wrappers. “Curfew is at eight o’clock. Lights out at nine sharp—and I do mean sharp—unless you have express permission from either Dave or mys—”

She paused mid-sentence, casting a sideways glance at her co-counselor.

“—unless I tell you otherwise.”

“Wha—?” Dave blinked, mid-bite, his burger contents threatening to spill as he looked wounded. “Hey—!”

“I mean it,” Minyard said firmly, her tone hardening. “This is for your safety. We’re in a dinosaur-filled jungle. Keep your distance. No exceptions. Get too close, and you will get hurt—or worse.”

With that charming little pep talk, the campers returned to their meals. Eyesore, never one to waste a spotlight, immediately launched into a breathless rant about how she was paid to be here—"influencer perks," or whatever.

Rayne tuned out, already plotting their escape. Right on cue, Eyesore pulled out her phone and hit play on a video titled:
Unboxing Icelandic Snacks + Trying to Pronounce the Labels

Rayne took one look at the thumbnail of her holding up a suspiciously fish-like chip and decided it was time to go.

They stood up, dumped their tray, and slipped out without a word—no way they were sticking around for whatever fermented nightmare came next.

☽─━★─━★─━★☾

Dear Rowan,

It’s my first day at this camp and honestly? It’s not as terrible as I thought it would be. There are six other campers and two counselors.

The counselors are Roxanne “Roxie” Minyard and David “Dave” Wymack. They seem responsible enough. Marisol knows them well even though they were only hired recently. The six other kids might be more of a problem. I like three of them so far… maybe four. We’ll see.

Bright Eyes — real name Darius Bowman — is the youngest. He’s super passionate about dinosaurs. I think you two would get along great. He’s smart, really patient, and his eyes literally shine like little stars when he talks about dinos. It’s kind of sweet.

Vampy — Ben Pincus — is extremely nervous. He reminds me of a scared animal that flinches instead of biting. Intelligent though, and takes in information like a sponge. He’s germaphobic and vegan. Pale as a sheet. Looks like a fictional vampire with social anxiety.

Long Hair — Yasmina Faduola. Her hair is very long, obviously. She’s quiet and introverted, but there’s a temper under that shy exterior. She seemed weirdly into the gorier dinosaur facts. I’m 90% sure she either writes or draws. She does the hand twitchy thing I do when I want to write something down.

Cowgirl — Sammy... something. I can’t spell her last name. Whatever. She’s like a younger, more excitable version of Marisol. Super cheerful, kind of pushy, maybe not the sharpest tool in the shed. I might get along with her in small doses. Long exposure could be hazardous to my mental health.

Sunglasses — Kenji Kon. Remember the rich kid I complained about before? Yep. That’s him. He’s here. Still wearing sunglasses indoors like an absolute lunatic.

And finally, Eyesore — the internet famous and oh-so-fabulous Brooklynn Ortega. Not kidding, she has bubblegum pink hair, a matching pink jumpsuit, pink suitcase, and a pink phone—all the exact same blinding shade. She has zero concept of personal boundries and acts like a spoiled brat most of the time. She’s also a pescatarian, which she made sure everyone knew about in the first 20 minutes of dinner. Also is being paid to be here increase PR for the park and promote Camp Cretaceous.

Yep thats about it I’ll write again the next chance I have.

Love,

R.E.D

Chapter Text

Day 1

Rayne just wanted water. That was it. A quick sip before Minyard or Wymack showed up for the bed check. Simple, harmless, unremarkable.

Instead, they walked straight into a scene that made them seriously question humanity’s evolutionary progress.

Sunglasses—shirtless, naturally—had Bright Eyes in a headlock that looked more middle-school playground than anything remotely professional. Gray sweatpants, smug stance, and the complete lack of actual struggling. Rayne decided no one was actually in danger and opted to observe.

“What do you think?” Sunglasses sneered, fingers digging in like Bright Eyes’ neck was a stubborn jar lid.

Bright Eyes shoved him off, glare sharp. “I think you’d best get your arm off me… friend.”

The word friend landed like a blade.

“Oh, why don’t you make me, friend?” Sunglasses shot back, his face contorting into something that could easily earn him a role as Henchman #3 in a bad action movie.

A few steps away, Eyesore appeared, damp hair plastered to her cheeks, phone in hand. She didn’t miss a beat.

“Huh. So that’s what toxic masculinity looks like.” Snap. Click. Smirk already in place. Pink silk pajamas, long sleeves buttoned just so.

“Uh, sorry we woke you—” Bright Eyes started, slow, honeyed politeness dripping from every word. Rayne pegged him as Southern American, the kind who says ma’am and bakes pies for strangers. Today: white T-shirt, navy basketball shorts, and the voice of someone trying very hard not to start a duel.

“He was sneaking out, but I was just trying to set him straight,” Sunglasses said, strolling closer to Eyesore and Rayne. “I look out for the younger kids. It’s who I am.”

Rayne raised a brow. Unimpressed.

Bright Eyes stepped back, exhaling hard. “You guys don’t understand. I’ve waited my whole life to get here. I’m not missing a thing. Those lights were coming from the compy enclosure—I gotta check it out.”

Rayne stared. “There is no compy enclosure that way,” the words slipping out before they could stop them.

“What? But the guy took the compy Ms. Roxie caught on the way here that way,” Bright Eyes insisted, pointing toward the flickering glow in the distance.

“Yeah, and the road to the compy enclosure goes south, then east to Sector Two—the main compy enclosure. The other one’s on the far west side of the island.” Rayne traced an invisible map in the air, eyes flicking back to the lights. “There’s nothing else that could be an enclosure near us. At least… nothing on the official channels.”

Eyesore and Bright Eyes both looked at Rayne—impressed? Definitely. Sunglasses? Vaguely annoyed, like Rayne had spoiled the surprise of a heist movie they hadn’t been cast in yet.

“Well, now we have to check it out!” Eyesore said, bouncing on her toes. “I’m here to unbox Jurassic World and all its secrets. Mysterious dinos that haven’t been released to the public? Prime views!”

“Hell yeah, let’s go!” Sunglasses agreed immediately, siding with Eyesore.

“Yes! This is great! What if it’s a new genus entirely?” Bright Eyes practically vibrated, already bouncing in place.

Then all three of them turned to Rayne, matching expectant stares that radiated “You in… or are you a buzzkill?”

Normally, Rayne would’ve said no. Absolutely, unequivocally, no. This is insane. This is dangerous. This is a terrible idea.

But curiosity had already gnawed at the edges of their reason. There were four of them. They had a phone. Rayne knew Minyard’s number in case anything went wrong. And they weren’t planning to get close—just a peek to see if there were dinosaurs.

It might not even be an enclosure. Could be a lab. Or an outpost. Something new, something unlisted on the official map.

Rayne exhaled, steeling themselves. Shoes first.

☽─━★─━★─━★☾

The pen wasn’t far from camp—too close, really. The thought twisted in Rayne’s stomach. Why put an enclosure here? Or worse, why build a camp within spitting distance?

The walk took forty-five minutes, mostly silent except for Sunglasses—now reluctantly clothed—whining like an overgrown toddler. Every five minutes: “Are we there yet?” It was less a question, more a curse on their existence.

Rayne was regretting not changing. The cotton cardigan clung like a wet rag, sweat pooling under the collar. The humidity was its own monster—thick, oppressive, relentless.

Finally, the edge of the enclosure appeared. The group collapsed behind a weathered Jeep bearing the Jurassic World logo, the hum of distant machinery vibrating through the night air.

“I think this is it,” Bright Eyes whispered, manic curiosity barely contained. “The truck definitely came this way.”

Sunglasses scoffed, face glowing in the beam of Eyesore’s phone light. “Of course it’s here. Why else would they—”

Rayne slammed a hand over his mouth. Footsteps approached.

Eyesore pressed a finger to her lips. Silence.

Keys jingled sharply, headlights slashed through the darkness. Rayne’s pulse spiked. Cold sweat pooled down their back like a warning.

The Jeep door slammed, engine growling to life. Every instinct screamed: Run.

Rayne grabbed Sunglasses and Eyesore, dragging them toward the narrow stairs to the overhead walkway. Bright Eyes followed, breath short and shallow.

The Jeep disappeared into the jungle with a crunch of gravel. Exhaling finally, they paused, scanning the eerie quiet. Too quiet.

Sunglasses, oblivious, called out: “Brooklynn, you can get a good shot over here!”

Rayne braced themselves. Was he trying to get her to photograph the pen—or himself?

“Allow me—” Sunglasses raised his voice.

“No thanks—”

“Just—”

“Hey—”

“Gimme my—” Eyesore’s frustration cracked through.

“C’mon!”

Too late. The phone slipped, clanging against a yellow pipe before vanishing into the unseen depths.

“Thank Kenji. Real smooth,” Eyesore muttered, moonlight catching her green eyes—so much like Aunt Jazz that Rayne almost felt guilty, until the shock of her pink hair snapped them back.

“Relax, I’ll get it,” Sunglasses said, already climbing into the pen.

“What the—what are you doing?!” Rayne and Bright Eyes yelled together.

“Relax, kiddies, I got it,” he called, disappearing into the shadows.

Rayne’s heart pounded as they tracked him behind the safety fence. These fences were for carnivores, right? The spacing meant a small or medium predator lurked inside.

The giant metal door loomed ahead. Strange metal muzzle pieces jutted from the outcrop—familiar from somewhere, though Rayne couldn’t place it. The silence pressed in, heavy and unnatural.

“See? Good as new!” Sunglasses’ voice echoed.

“Now climb back and gently hand it over,” Eyesore replied, tone anxious and annoyed.

Bright Eyes edged toward the moonlight, peering into the pen. Rayne’s stomach dropped.

The remains of several larger animals lay scattered in the underbrush. A pig skull half-buried in the dirt confirmed it: the pen was occupied.

Bushes rustled. Bright Eyes gasped. Something large was moving through them.

“Um, guys…” Bright Eyes whispered. “This pen isn’t empty.”

“Definitely not empty,” Rayne muttered, eyes fixed on the approaching shadows.

“Quiet, junior! The grown-ups are talking,” Sunglasses called, oblivious.

The bushes froze.

“Ahh, your followers are gonna love this. Dino, dino, dino!”

“Kenji, pull your arm back! Kenji, don’t!” Rayne and Bright Eyes shouted.

The stalker revealed itself: shorter than Sunglasses by an inch, sleek gray skin with a blue stripe outlined in white. Not a typical park raptor—bulkier, quill-less, eyes glowing soft orange. Curiosity, not aggression, guided it.

A bright flash erupted from Sunglasses’ camera. The raptor shrieked, charging the fence—Sunglasses flew backward, screaming.

Eyesore yelled, “Come on!”

They bolted after her, hearts hammering. The raptor chased Sunglasses, gravel crunching underfoot.

“Open the gate! Open the gate!” he shrieked.

Rayne hit the control panel, fingers slamming two buttons. Sirens blared, floodlights snapped on, raptors distracted.

Wymack and Minyard arrived, pulling everyone to safety. First responders swarmed, shouting orders, guns and tasers ready. European French curses floated from a tall ranger, jotting down notes for Aunt Jazz later.

Rayne grabbed Eyesore’s arm, dragging her down the steps. Wymack crouched, vomiting. Minyard was already lecturing the boys. First responders checked them over—and finally, Rayne exhaled, hoping no one called Aunt Jazz or Marisol.

☽─━★─━★─━★☾

Rayne, Sunglasses, and Bright Eyes slumped on the blue lounge couch like three suspects awaiting sentencing. The vinyl stuck to the backs of Rayne’s knees, squeaking every time they shifted. Annoying. Almost as annoying as Sunglasses popping his mouth every six seconds like a bubble wrap addict in a hostage situation.

The whole time, Rayne wondered where the hell Eyesore was—and why she wasn’t here with the rest of the dumbass quartet.

POP.

Rayne squeezed their ring between two fingers. Click. Spin. Left. Right. Stop.

“S’il s’arrête pas, j’vais le frapper,” they muttered under their breath. [If he doesn’t stop, I’ll hit him.]

Bright Eyes didn’t need to speak French. The mood translated just fine.

POP.

Rayne didn’t look up. “Could you not do that?” they asked, polite-ish. Calm. Normal. Totally not one mouth-pop away from committing a felony.

“How could you do something so stupid!?” Bright Eyes snapped first.

“I do a lot of stupid things, so you’ll have to be specific,” Sunglasses mocked. “Girls love a grand gesture, junior. You’ll understand when you’re older.”

Rayne stared at him. “I feel sorry for your future partner if you ever get one.” He looked at them offended.

“And no one’s impressed,” Bright Eyes muttered.

Rayne glanced at the youngest, who looked like he was about to get a death sentence. They remembered how excited he’d been about the zip line, how much he’d asked Wymack and Minyard about the dinosaurs. The thought of being sent home was the worst thing ever for him.

His smile faltered—maybe seeing the youngest so down hit him too. “Yeah, okay, maybe it wasn’t my best idea.”

Rayne raised an eyebrow. Maybe?

He dragged a hand through his hair, smearing a line of dirt across his forehead. “Okay, yeah, this was my worst idea yet. Look, I don’t want to get kicked out either. When my dad... My whole life I’ve been trying to make him proud. If he finds out I messed up again, he might... finally give up on me for good.”

Rayne looked away. The bitter part of them wanted to call him dramatic. But another part—the part they barely let surface—understood all too well.

They’d been in more families than they could count during those two years in foster care, and each time they’d been given up on.

That feeling—being abandoned—cut through any walls they’d built, because deep down, they always held on to the hope that maybe, just maybe, this one would be different.

But it never was.

Not until Aunt Jazz.

And the thought of her being disappointed in Rayne cut deep, filling them with an unmeasurable dread for the phone call that would definitely come.

Darius’s shoulders slumped. Silence pressed down on them.

The door creaked open—Wymack and Minyard stepped in. Their voices hit hard, chewing the three of them out for what felt like forever.

Rayne barely registered the words, still stunned they weren’t calling anyone’s parents, let alone kicking them out. Sunglasses and Bright Eyes must’ve done something, because Rayne just went along with it—nodding and humming in all the right places, letting the tide of their voices wash past.

Day 2

Rayne shuffled out of the hallway and into the dining room, greeted by the unfamiliar morning chaos.

Vampy was deep in argument with Wymack over something, Eyesore clutched a mug of coffee like it was a life raft, and Sunglasses and Bright Eyes were locked in mortal combat over the crispiest strips of bacon. Long Hair slumped in her running gear, glaring at Bright Eyes and Sunglasses like they killed her cat.

Everyone wore dark circles like badges of honor—everyone except Cowgirl, who looked irritatingly fresh-faced. Either she’d actually slept, or she was one of those horrifying morning people.

Rayne sighed and dropped into a chair beside Vampy, who’d paused his argument long enough to crunch dry cereal. From the five sugar-loaded options on the counter, he’d somehow found the “healthy” one.

Rayne poked at the scrambled eggs on their plate. Mornings had never agreed with them—food least of all. Two meals a day was their norm: lunch and dinner, sometimes just dinner with a couple of snacks if they remembered. The eggs weren’t terrible, but after a few bites, their stomach was already waving the white flag.

Dark circles shadowed their eyes, souvenirs from the near-death raptor encounter—and the three people breathing down their neck while they tried to sleep hadn’t helped either.

“Good morning!” Minyard chirped, black eyes sparkling as she stepped into the dining area. Everyone blinked, caught off guard by her relentless cheer.

“Wow. You are scarily happy for someone who didn’t sleep last night,” Wymack muttered, and Rayne winced in sympathy.

“That’s because the three chuckleheads present are here!” Minyard beamed, clapping Bright Eyes and Sunglasses on the shoulders. “Walk with me, will you? And you too, Rayne.” It was less a request than a command. Rayne sighed, abandoning their half-eaten plate.

The group followed her to the balcony. Below, men in red jumpsuits were unloading large blue metal drums and lining them up in a row.

“I don’t get it,” Bright Eyes muttered, glancing at Minyard.

“Oh, you will,” she said with a smirk. On cue, a dump truck backed in and emptied its bed onto the ground.

“Is that…?” Sunglasses started, brow furrowed.

“Yep!” Minyard’s grin widened. “Dinosaur droppings. I want everyone to take a long, good look, because while we’re at the remote genetics lab, Kenji, Rayne, and Darius here are going to clean up that little mess.”

The two boys groaned in unison, complaints rising with every second—though to Rayne, it only seemed to make Minyard enjoy herself more.

“And don’t worry,” she added, turning toward Eyesore, “we didn’t forget about you. Your contract says you document a behind-the-scenes look at Camp Cretaceous. But on our scheduled arts-and-crafts days? That’s when you’ll get your footage.”

“What?!” Eyesore gasped, spinning around in horror, pink hair bouncing with the motion.

☽─━★─━★─━★☾

Sammy pinched her nose, still stunned by just how… potent it was. Years on the ranch should’ve prepared her for the smell of dung. Apparently not. Wow. Dinosaurs really were something else.

Her gaze swept the group. Darius’s face had fallen, Kenji’s grimace was almost comical, and Rayne looked so utterly done that Sammy had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. The scene was equal parts horrifying and hilarious. Oh well—play stupid games, win stupid prizes, as her tía¹ always said.

“Enjoy cleaning this up, guys,” Señorita² Roxie said, tossing shovels to the two boys and handing Rayne a bucket. “We’re heading to the genetics lab.”

Everyone followed her to the nearby jeep and climbed in the back, buckling up. Sammy watched as Señor³ Dave tossed Darius a bottle of cologne. She knew exactly what it was for before Darius even caught it—her yaya⁴ punished her pa the same way. Ma wouldn’t go near him until he’d showered at least three times to scrub the smell off.

“Cologne. That’ll help with the smell,” Señor Dave said, one hand in his pocket, a sly smile tugging at his face as he backed toward the jeep, careful to avoid the largest pile of dung Sammy had ever seen.

“And the ladies—what-what!” he added, leaning on the jeep. “But mostly the smell. The stench of dinosaur poo? Yeah, that really lingers.”

With that, he hopped into the passenger seat. Sammy watched as the three smaller figures of Darius, Kenji, and Rayne shrank in the rearview mirror as the jeep drove away.

A few minutes later, Brooklynn muttered under her breath, “Ugh… I’m still dropping followers? ‘When are we gonna see cool stuff?’ Chill, dude, I just got here.”

Sammy blinked. Dropping followers? The Brooklynn? Ridiculous. She had to cheer her up—it was practically a god-given right as a fellow Brooklander.

“So, what’s your next video? Ooh, maybe there are baby dino eggs in the lab! Everyone loves a baby video!” Sammy said, nudging a smile onto her own face as she tried to lift Brooklynn’s mood. Secretly, she hoped there was something cool in the lab she could actually use.

“Whatever it is, it’ll be cool,” Brooklynn replied, her face setting into that determined pout Sammy had come to recognize.

Sammy turned her attention to the scenery outside—towering ferns and thick jungle brushing past the windows—until the jeep rolled to a stop at a building hidden beneath the canopy.

Brooklynn whipped out her phone, hit record, and launched into her signature intro.
“What’s good, Brooklanders! Today I’m coming to you live from one of Jurassic World’s coolest remote genetics labs!”

They piled inside, and Sammy’s jaw dropped. Screens flickered, scientists hurried past with clipboards and tablets, and cases of amber glowed under the bright lights. Her stomach sank. How was she supposed to find anything for her family in a place like this?

“It’s so shiny in here!” she blurted, bouncing on her heels despite the weight in her chest.

Dave and Roxie peeled off toward a serious-looking man in a pressed lab coat—Sammy guessed he was the one in charge. She drifted away from the group, circling the room like she was just curious, eyes scanning for something—anything—useful.

Her steps carried her to a glass case along the wall. Amber. Dozens of pieces, glowing golden with trapped prehistoric bugs. She reached out and lifted one, holding it up to the light. A mosquito hung frozen inside, wings delicate as lace, a whole lifetime stopped midflight.

Before she could even blink, a hand snatched it from her fingers. Sammy jerked back, heart skipping. The man in charge was right there, still mid-conversation with Dave and Roxie, sliding the amber back into its slot without so much as glancing at her—like it had never left.

He moved on, crossing the room toward a woman Brooklynn had fixed her camera on. Her smile looked practiced, stretched just a little too thin. She nodded dutifully until he slipped out of frame, then the corners of her mouth dropped into a tight grimace.

“Alright, everyone, for the tour please follow me!” she called brightly.

Sammy perked up and hurried over. “Hi! I’m Sammy!”

The woman’s smile softened, if only slightly. “Dr. Jessica Harding. Welcome. I’ll admit—we were under the impression you’d be arriving tomorrow, so we didn’t exactly have time to prepare.” She ignored the sharp snort from Roxie behind her. “But no matter. Let’s begin over here.”

She led the group to a towering wall divided into neat little shelves, each displaying a polished chunk of amber, insects frozen inside like jewels. Her voice shifted into tour-guide cadence, confident and alive.

“Here at Jurassic World, we’re known for creating the first living, breathing de-extinct dinosaurs on the planet! Incredible, right? Now, there’s a common misconception that we just patch these animals together with whatever DNA we can scrounge up from living creatures. But the truth is far more fascinating.”

She gestured toward the amber with a flourish that made Ben think of a game show host.

“The first method is extracting DNA from fossilized bone. It’s time-consuming, and what we find is usually mitochondrial DNA—passed down from mothers to their offspring. Useful, but incomplete. The second method, and the one you’re seeing here, is extracting blood from hematophagous insects—mosquitoes, horseflies, the little vampires of the prehistoric world. That gives us nuclear DNA, the molecule of life itself, which paints a much clearer picture of our dinosaurs.”

Sammy hung on every word. She didn’t know if any of this would help her family, but it sure was interesting.

☽─━★─━★─━★☾

“This bites!” Bright Eyes complained—for the seventh time in five minutes—as he heaved another shovelful of dung into the blue bucket, face scrunched and sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. “Thanks to you, I’m stuck shoveling poop instead of watching a live dinosaur birth!”

He stabbed the shovel into the pile like it had personally robbed him of his dream. “That’s only been my dream since, oh, I don’t know—forever!” His voice cracked, equal parts fury and heartbreak.

Rayne pinched the bridge of their nose, exhaling slowly. “It’s all our faults we’re here. Remember?” Their tone carried the weight of someone who’d said it ten times already—and knew it wouldn’t sink in.

Sunglasses cut in before Rayne could finish. Grinning sharp and infuriating, he talked right over them. “Dude, that’s not a dream. A dream is, like… when you save a bunch of mermaids from a shark.”

Rayne’s shoulders slumped. That grin—they knew it well. He was doing this on purpose. And judging by Bright Eyes’ reddening ears, it was working.

“Ugh, whatever!” Bright Eyes snapped, voice cracking again. Knuckles whitening on the shovel, he jabbed it into the muck with a wet squelch. “Figures you wouldn’t understand! Those scientists are heroes! They recreated the T. rex! Brachiosaurus! Triceratops! Velociraptors!” Another heave of dung, breath hitching. “Do you know what it takes to do that?!”

Sunglasses leaned on his shovel lazily, letting the silence stretch, then smirked. “It’s cute you’re this worked up over some dumb lab. But… noobs like you? You don’t even know half of what’s in this place.”

Bright Eyes froze mid-swing, shovel hovering. Suspicion flickered across his face. Rayne groaned inwardly—they already knew where this was going.

“Like what?” Bright Eyes demanded, voice equal parts challenge and curiosity, planting the shovel in the ground.

Sunglasses’ grin widened, slow and smug. Rayne shifted their weight, bracing for impact—they’d heard that tone before.

Bright Eyes scoffed, puffing up his chest like he’d realized he was being toyed with. “You’re all talk,” he muttered, trying to cloak his nerves in bravado. Still, his eyes betrayed him, flicking back to Sunglasses with a spark of curiosity he couldn’t choke down.

Sunglasses leaned in, just enough to crowd him. “Oh yeah?”

“I’ve been to this park like fifty kajilion times,” Sunglasses shot back, shovel planted like a flag in enemy territory. Chin lifted, voice wobbling between casual and smug pride. “I’m in the know, junior. And since the two of you helped me out earlier…” He dragged the words out, savoring them. “I miiiiiight be willin’ to share the, uh—good stuff.”

Rayne blinked. Why does he sound like he’s selling us drugs?

Bright Eyes’ interest sparked for half a second, then he shook his head so hard his neck popped. “No. No way. I cannot get into any more trouble. We almost got kicked out last time.”

“Not to mention the two of you almost got eaten by a pack of velociraptors,” Rayne added, shifting their shovel against their shoulder. Their tone was flat as sand. “Also, I trust you about as far as I can throw you. And judging by how loud your ass was this morning? That wouldn’t be very far.” The mountain of pancakes he ate and his epic tumble out of his bunk reinforced the jab.

Bright Eyes cracked first, bursting into laughter, nearly doubling over with his shovel. Sunglasses’ jaw dropped in offense. “Fine! Suit yourself!” he snapped, but his swagger slid back into place. He turned, zeroing in on Bright Eyes, voice low and taunting. “You’ve been waiting your whole life to see dinosaurs.” Leaning closer, just enough to crowd the younger boy, he added, “Just thought you’d be interested in seeing one that the park usually keeps off-limits.”

Rayne’s stomach dropped. Those creatures weren’t shown to the public for a reason—too rare, too aggressive, maybe too intelligent… a little too unpredictable.

“But… whatevs,” Sunglasses said, smirking at Bright Eyes’ wide eyes. “It’s only a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

And Bright Eyes broke. Rayne watched his face light up with the same manic curiosity from last night, bracing for the inevitable stupid—and probably dangerous—decision.
“Fine,” he said, grinning. “As long as we get back before anyone notices.”

Rayne mentally face-palmed. Curse twelve-year-olds and their zero impulse control.

“Deal!” Sunglasses crowed, slapping Bright Eyes on the shoulder. “Alright, that’s two against one! So what’s it gonna be, Rayne? You comin’ or stayin’?”

Rayne crossed their arms and looked at the giant pile of shit they hadn’t made a dent in. “I’m good.”

Sunglasses tilted his head, smirk never faltering. “Oh, come on. Don’t be that person.”

“That person?” Rayne echoed flatly. They glared up at the taller boy, jaw tight.

“Yeah,” Sunglasses said, leaning down just enough to be irritating. “The buzzkill. The killjoy. The ‘responsible one.’” He made air quotes. “Boooooring.”

Rayne’s glare sharpened, and the space between them shrank before either of them realized it.

“Okay! Let’s all calm down!” Bright Eyes cut in quickly, sliding between them like a human shield. He glanced nervously from Sunglasses’ smug grin to Rayne’s laser stare. “Seriously. No need for, uh… death glares this early in the morning.”

Rayne exhaled sharply through their nose, shifting their weight back a step. Sunglasses just shrugged, smirk still plastered on his face like he’d already won.

“Rayne, you don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” Bright Eyes said quickly, tone more peacekeeper than instigator. “But… come on, don’t you wanna see what it is?”

Before Rayne could answer, Sunglasses cut in, eyes glittering with mischief. “Do you wanna keep shoveling crap all day—” he gestured at the steaming pile with a dramatic flourish, “—or do you wanna see a cool dinosaur? Your choice.”

Rayne looked at the two idiots, then back at the mountain of steaming dung and the six blue buckets—only one and a half filled. Their jaw tightened.

They tossed the shovel into the nearest bucket, wiped their hands on their shorts, and stalked past the boys.

Bright Eyes whooped and smacked Sunglasses’ palm in a triumphant high-five. Sunglasses, of course, just nodded like he’d planned the whole thing.

“Okay! One cool dino comin’ up. Just follow the VIP juniors!” Sunglasses declared, strutting in the opposite direction of the mountain of crap.

Rayne pinched the bridge of their nose, muttering, “This is how people die in horror movies,” before trudging after them. “Tabarnak [Fuck]… this is such a bad idea.”

“Ka-ching!” Sunglasses crowed, hitting the panel like he’d just unlocked a treasure chest. “Where does this tunnel go?” Bright Eyes leaned over, peering into the black hole like it might eat him whole.

“This tu-hu-nel,” Sunglasses said, savoring every syllable, “is part of an underground network connecting the whole island. This is how the big dogs get around.” He threw up his arms and began to get into position to climb down.

“No,” Rayne cut in, yanking the back of his shirt before he could take a step. “This is how staff move around—and into the paddocks. How the hell do you know about this?”

Sunglasses groaned, rolling his eyes like Rayne had personally offended the entire universe. “As I just said, I know this place like the back of my VIP hand. My dad got so many tours to keep him investing that the workers basically did whatever I wanted. Ten-year-old me wanted a tunnel tour? Boom. Another tour. And another. And another.”

He gave a dramatic flourish toward the ladder. “You’re actually looking at a Jurassic World VIP kid.”

With that, Sunglasses swung a leg over the edge and began his descent, his grin barely visible in the dim light before he vanished into the blackness below. Rayne’s shoulders sagged with a mix of disbelief and irritation.

“Ladies first,” Rayne said, gesturing with an exaggerated flourish toward Bright Eyes. The younger boy shot them a skeptical look, eyebrows raised, before inching toward the ladder. Every step seemed hesitant, like he was daring the darkness to bite him, but eventually he grabbed the rungs and began his slow descent.

Rayne quickly followed after him, landing softly after jumping off the last few steps.

The hatch snapped shut behind them, plunging the tunnel into pitch-black darkness.

“Kenji?” Darius’s voice trembled, slicing through the silence.

A switch clicked, and the harsh buzz of fluorescent lights sputtered to life, casting the tunnel in a cold, sterile glow. Pipes the size of Rayne’s torso ran along the walls, reflecting the light and making the space feel impossibly claustrophobic.

Kenji on the opposite wall leans against it with arms crossed and a smirk. “You still bummed about that genetics lab?” 

☽─━★─━★─━★☾

Sammy’s eyes practically bulged out of her head, glued to the scientist poking at an eyeball bigger than her own noggin. She didn’t even notice Brooklynn lifting her camera, filming every mumble Dr. Wu made about… something to do with time? Not that Sammy cared.

“Ooh! Eyeball!” she squeaked, then immediately abandoned it, sprinting toward the next shiny thing. “Ooh, what’s that, Dr. Wu?!”

“That’s tree frog DNA. Unfortunately I—”

Her words trailed off as Sammy’s gaze landed on a cart stacked high with bones. So many bones. COOOOL! She jabbed a finger at it. “What’s that?!”

“Siberian mammoth remains extracted for—” Dr. Wu started, but Sammy’s attention had already darted elsewhere. Her eyes caught a dark hallway, blacked-out windows staring like empty sockets.

“Ooh, what’s down that hall?” she pressed her face against the glass, squinting like she could will the darkness away.

“My private office,” Dr. Wu said, placing a firm hand against the glass. “Restricted.” His glare made it clear she wasn’t getting in there.

Too bad for him—Sammy was nothing if not determined. A private office? Perfect. That was exactly the kind of place she needed to sneak into.

Dave yelled about something, and the entire lab swiveled toward the commotion. Perfect timing. Sammy seized the moment, slipping behind someone exiting the private office.

The hallway was dim, shadows stretching long across the floor. She darted her eyes across the doors, searching for the one that mattered:

Dr. Henry Wu.

Her stomach sank as she saw the door—no handle. “Of course,” she muttered under her breath, pacing forward in search of something else useful. Come on, come on… I have to find something.

She tried door after door, testing each one carefully. When she reached the fifth door down from Dr. Wu’s office, a quiet thrill ran through her—this one opened.

She slipped inside slowly, exhaling in relief. The room was empty. Her jaw dropped as her eyes took in the walls of computers, screens blinking with streams of data, charts, and flashing icons. This… this was a goldmine! She could definitely find something here to help save the ranch.

Her gaze darted around, landing on a screen that wasn’t logged out. Lines of text scrolled across it—gene splicing, potential risks, sequences she barely recognized. She quickly closed the tab, heart racing, only to freeze as another image caught her eye.

A dinosaur stared back at her from the screen: it looked like a T. rex, but with unnaturally long arms. She squinted at the name flashing at the top: Indominus Rex.

Her eyes darted around the desk for something to take. Spotting a hard drive, she pulled up a jumble of random tabs—anything she could access—and jabbed the drive in, tapping the desk in the rhythm of Adrenalina⁵. Faster, faster, faster. She silently pleaded with the loading screen, with the Wi-Fi, willing them to keep up.

A squeal of delight escaped her as the files finally loaded. She bolted down the hall, retracing her steps, and rounded the corner—only to collide head-on with Brooklynn.

“Oh—hey!” Sammy blurted, forcing a smile that was already plastered across her face.

“Sammy…” Brooklynn narrowed her eyes, raising a brow but keeping her usual easy smile. “Uh, what are you doing out here?”

“I was just—” Sammy chuckled nervously, scrambling for an excuse. Excuse, excuse, excuse. “This place oughta come with a GPS! I really gotta go.” She put on her best look of desperate urgency, even though her real desperation had nothing to do with bathrooms.

Brooklynn blinked, then pointed down the corridor. “I… think there’s a bathroom on the other end of the hall, really.”

“Thanks! See you back there!” Sammy waved a little too quickly and hurried off.

☽─━★─━★─━★☾

Rayne trailed a few steps behind, ears pricked, catching every word between the two ahead.

“For real though,” Bright Eyes asked, curiosity sparking in his voice, “where are you taking us? Are we seeing a T-rex or a rare sauropod?”

Sunglasses shot a grin over his shoulder. “Kid, I’ve got something better than a rare sauropod. We’re heading to the area where they quarantine the dinos that are too aggro. Last one I saw down here was some kind of carna—carna—something.”

Rayne froze mid-step just as the group stopped at an exit ladder. “Carnotaurus?”

“Hold on. Carnotaur?” Bright Eyes blurted at the same time. His own words seemed to shock him—he slapped his hands over his mouth immediately, like he’d just shouted a secret.
“One of my top five favorite dinos!” he mumbled through his fingers.

“Sweet, right? The park board actually offered to name it after me, but I was like, nah, I’ll hold out for something cooler. But I figured you’d both like this—you know, as a thanks. For, uh, not being a narc when—”

“So there’s a Carnotaurus right up there?” Bright Eyes cut in, words tumbling out, manic gleam flashing in his eye. He leaned forward on his toes, practically vibrating with anticipation.

“Obviously. Like my boy Masrani always says, when Kenji promises, Kenji delivers.” Sunglasses puffed himself up, swagger in every word. He reached for the control panel—only to jab at the wrong button.

Rayne hauled themself up through the hatch and brushed dirt off their hands, only to stop short. Jungle. Nothing but jungle. No fences, no warning signs, no concrete—just endless green pressing in on every side.

Sunglasses clambered up behind them, immediately hopping onto the thick root of a strangler fig like it was a stage. Bright Eyes followed, wide-eyed, spinning in a slow circle to take everything in.

“You do know where you’re going, right?” Rayne asked, one brow raised, their eyes narrowing in suspicion.

Bright Eyes flicked a glance at them, his face twisting into an odd expression—something between curiosity and hesitation. Rayne caught it, but didn’t know what to make of it, so they let it slide.

“Trust me, I got this on lock,” Sunglasses declared, puffing out his chest. But the crack in his voice and the way his eyes darted from tree to tree betrayed him. He looked like he was hoping for a giant glowing arrow marked Carnotaurus this way.

“The pen is, heh, uh… this way.” He jabbed his finger stiffly to the left and started marching with false confidence.

“What am I even doing?” Bright Eyes muttered under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. For a second, it looked like he might actually turn back—then he sighed, squared his shoulders, and hurried after Sunglasses, jogging a little to catch up.

Rayne hung back in their usual place, a few paces behind the two boys, watching the jungle close in around them. The air was heavy, thick with humidity, and even just walking felt like pushing through syrup.

After a while, both boys’ breaths grew louder—panting, grunting, the occasional muttered complaint. Sweat darkened the back of Bright Eyes’ white shirt and plastered Sunglasses’ hair to his forehead.

Rayne wiped their own brow with the back of their hand, silently cursing the blazing sun, before their gaze snagged on Sunglasses.

Of course the idiot had decided to trek into the jungle in a long-sleeved, dark blue designer sweatshirt. A sweatshirt that, by Rayne’s estimate, probably cost more than their entire wardrobe combined.

Rayne, at least, had the sense to check the weather app on Brooklynn’s phone this morning. They’d planned accordingly: a light green T-shirt that covered their upper arms, a thin skirt that hung past their knees without restricting movement, and a trusty pair of sneakers.

A long strip of tall grass blocked their path, thick stalks whipping at their legs as they tried to shove through. It took a solid minute of wrestling with the green wall before any progress showed—long enough for Sunglasses to start swearing under his breath and Bright Eyes to nearly trip twice. Rayne just sighed, yanking a stubborn blade out of their way.

A cloud of bugs that was passing by swarmed Sunglasses as he pushed his way out of the tall grass. Sunglasses stumbled forward, snagged his foot on a root, and went down in spectacular fashion. His legs pinwheeled, arms flailing as he let out a strangled yelp

“Gah—ugh—get ’em off! Get ’em off!” Sunglasses sputtered, swatting at the air like he was being mauled by invisible piranhas, rolling side to side in the dirt.

Rayne clamped a hand over their mouth, but a breath of laughter still slipped out.

The bugs scattered as fast as they’d come, leaving Sunglasses groaning in the grass. Bright Eyes scrambled over and, with a determined grunt, hooked his arms under the older boy’s. For a second it looked like he might collapse too—Sunglasses was easily twice his size—but Bright Eyes dug his heels into the dirt and heaved.

“Where’s that stupid fence?” he groaned, voice cracking with frustration.

“Kenji, maybe we should head back.” Bright Eyes finally managed to get him upright, wobbling under the weight. “We don’t wanna get caught and cause trouble with your dad.”

Sunglasses blinked, brushing dirt off his designer sweatshirt. “What does my dad have to do with anything? Dude’s barely around. He’s not worrying about me.”

Rayne stopped short, the words hanging in the thick jungle air. Bright Eyes froze, wide-eyed, like he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard either.

“What?” he blurted. “Then what was all that—” his voice pitched up as he slipped into a mocking tone—“ ‘my whole life I’ve been trying to make my dad proud, junior.’” Bright Eyes puffed out his chest in a clumsy imitation, then dropped it just as quickly, eyebrows knitting together.

“Oh, right. I was… lying. Cause of the whole not wanting to get sent home thing.” Sunglasses turned around just to see Bright Eyes and Rayne staring at him, pissed. “Forgive me for not wanting to spend another summer alone. In fact, when you really think about it, this is on you for being so gullible.” He crossed his arms.

“I can’t believe this,” Bright Eyes scoffed.

“Ever think that’s why you spend your summers alone?” Rayne’s voice rose, sharper than they meant. “You don’t get to treat people like garbage and expect them to stick around!”

The words were out before they could stop them, heat buzzing in their chest. And then, underneath the fire, came the sting of their own thoughts—stupid, stupid, you’re a fucking idiot, Delaire. Why did you believe this jackass in the first place?

Sunglasses flinched—not much, but enough to show the jab landed. His mouth opened like he wanted to argue, but instead he just shifted his weight, arms tightening across his chest, acting like he was the one being unfairly attacked.

“I could be watching a live dinosaur birth!” Bright Eyes complained, his voice edged with betrayal. “I bet there’s not even a Carnotaurus in there!”

“Hey, I keep it honest,” Sunglasses shot back, a little too desperate. Bright Eyes and Rayne both rolled their eyes in unison.

“Except this morning,” he admitted with a shrug. “And, like… a bunch of other times today. But I’m telling the truth about this one!”

Rayne groaned under their breath, tipping their head back like the jungle canopy might offer patience. Bright Eyes threw his arms out in exasperation.

“Great! I’m out here for no reason, I’ll probably get sent home, and it’s all because I believed you!” Bright Eyes snapped. Spinning on his heel, he stormed back the way they’d come. “Come on, Rayne—we need to get back before the others arrive.”

“Fine! Whatever. Last time I try to do something nice for a bunch of dumb kids.” Sunglasses kicked at the dirt, grabbed a rock, and hurled it in the opposite direction as he stalked off.

CLANG!

The metallic echo cut through the jungle, sharp and out of place. Everyone froze mid-step, exchanging uneasy looks.

Without a word, they pushed through another tangle of tall grass—and there it was. A fence, at least ten meters high, thick metal bars sunk into a concrete foundation.

Kenji’s face lit up instantly. He threw his arms wide with a smug grin.
“Hah! Kenji delivers. You’re welcome!”

Bright Eyes bolted for the fence, pressing his face between the bars with eager curiosity. Sunglasses trailed after him at a slower pace, shoulders still tight from the argument.

Rayne, though, stayed put. Their eyes traced the towering structure more carefully, noticing how the bars curved inward, not out. A chill slid down their spine.

“Oi, Kon.”

The words cracked sharper than Rayne meant them to, but it got the reaction they wanted. Sunglasses jerked his head toward them, flinching like he’d been caught. He wasn’t just startled by the bite in their voice—he was startled because they’d finally used his name.

“You do know what side of the fence we’re on… right?” Rayne asked, eyes narrowing at the inward curve of the bars.

Bright Eyes froze mid-step, gaze climbing up the fence like he was seeing it for the first time. His hands curled into fists, and his voice came out smaller than usual.

“Kenji…” he muttered, afraid.

Rayne didn’t need to say anything more. The way Bright Eyes said his name carried enough weight to wipe the smug look right off Sunglasses’ face.

Boom.
Boom.

Boom.
Boom.

Rayne’s own breathing suddenly felt too loud, their chest rising and falling like it might give them away. The jungle sounds blurred into the background as their ears locked onto the rhythm—each thud heavier, closer, purposeful.

The fence shuddered with a metallic groan. That was no random noise. Whatever was on the other side had heard the rock.

Branches shifted. A shadow loomed. Then, just beyond the bars, a massive shape stepped into view. Tan hide streaked with brown, muscle rolling under its skin, the Carnotaurus stepped closer. Its maw twitched as it sniffed—once, twice—before swinging its head left.

Its eyes locked on them.
On the intruders.

The Carnotaurus roared, the sound splitting the air and rattling Rayne’s bones.

“Run!” Bright Eyes shrieked, already bolting back into the forest.

Rayne’s body moved before their mind could catch up, legs pumping like pistons, arms slapping through low-hanging branches that whipped across their face and arms. The jungle was a blur of green and brown, every snap of a twig or rustle of leaves echoing like a warning. Sunglasses was right behind them, panicked breaths hot and ragged, his hands flailing at the foliage as if swatting invisible hands.

The ground shook with each monstrous step of the Carnotaurus. Footfalls pounded against dirt and tangled roots. The smell of wet earth and something metallic—blood, maybe—hung heavy in the air.

Rayne surged ahead, passing both Bright Eyes and Sunglasses by several meters, heart hammering in their ears. They risked a glance back and saw the Carno’s tan-and-brown bulk barreling through the underbrush, jaws opening and closing like a trap ready to snap.

“On a count of three! Turn left!” Rayne screamed, voice cracking. Their hands shook from adrenaline, fingertips grazing branches, thorns digging into skin.

“THREE!”

A massive crash erupted as the dinosaur slammed through a fallen tree, splinters scattering like shrapnel. Rayne twisted sharply, dirt and leaves scratching their legs and arms. Bright Eyes skidded next to them, tripping over a root and regaining his balance with a desperate scramble. Sunglasses was barely a foot behind, stumbling over rocks, voice a strangled mix of panic and disbelief.

“It’s fast, but it can’t handle turns! Zigzag!” Bright Eyes yelled, eyes wide with terror.

Rayne’s gaze locked on a metal grate glinting just ahead. A faint hope. Their lungs burned, chest heaving, every beat of their heart matched by the thudding of the Carnotaurus behind them.

The Carno lunged from the side, smashing into a tree with a bone-crunching CRACK.

They burst into a sun-dappled clearing. Rayne’s eyes locked on salvation. “There!” They yelled, sprinting toward the feeding gate. Adrenaline flared, legs pumping harder than they thought possible.

They dove through the opening, grabbing the slow-crawling Sunglasses and yanking him through. Bright Eyes scrambled next, muscles quivering, and slipped inside just as the Carno shook itself off, snout bleeding slightly from the tree impact.

The gate slammed shut—then jammed.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” Rayne’s hands scraped raw against the metal as they yanked, panic burning their throat. Their arms shook so bad they could barely grip, but they kept pulling—because stopping meant Bright Eyes getting eaten and no one deserved that.

Sunglasses rammed a stick between the bars, knuckles bone-white, eyes wild. Bright Eyes was near tears, breath hitching, voice breaking as he begged, “Come on, come on, please—”

The gate groaned, warped—then snapped open with a screech. Rayne dragged Bright Eyes through, both of them crashing into the dirt. A split second later, the earth boomed—the Carnotaurus hit the gate head-on.

The impact rattled Rayne’s skull, ears ringing so hard they swore their brain might leak out. Blood smeared across the bars from the beast’s torn snout, glistening wet and dark.

Sunglasses stumbled up, adrenaline curdling into something unhinged. He laughed—high, shaky, too loud. “Aww, diddums! Dino hurt its widdle nose?” He jabbed a finger at the monster. “You think you’re slick, Toro? You got nothing!”

Rayne stayed where they’d fallen, chest convulsing with uneven gasps, heart trying to tear its way out of their ribcage. Their palms were bleeding and slick. Their stomach lurched, threatening to empty right there in the dirt.

“Toro,” Sunglasses wheezed between manic laughs. “Cause—cause of the horns.”

“Yeah, I get it.” Bright Eyes’ voice shook, cracking under forced bravado. “Hey, Toro—your arms are useless! Ha!”

“Yeah boy, that’s what’s—”

WHAM!

The fence bucked, earth jolting beneath them. All three shrieked, instinct yanking them back down to the dirt as the Carnotaurus’s roar ripped through the air. Its hot breath blasted over them, metallic with blood.

Rayne’s ears rang like a struck bell.

Another bellow tore skyward, then the beast huffed, spraying blood onto the ground. With a final lash of its tail, it stormed off into the trees.

Silence collapsed in its wake—except for their ragged, uneven breathing.

Rayne tilted their head back against the dirt, throat so dry they could barely croak. “What time… did they say they were getting back from the lab?”

Sunglasses barked a single word—shaky, breathless, perfectly summed up the whole day.

“Shit.”

☽─━★─━★─━★☾

Rayne’s fear of Minyard—and the inevitable wrath that came with it—absolutely trumped their fear of Toro.

Which was saying something.

Thanks to Sunglasses conveniently forgetting where the nearest tunnel was, they’d had to full-send it back to camp on foot. Again. Rayne’s legs hated them. Their lungs hated them more. Their ears were still ringing from Toro’s last roar, and their hands wouldn’t stop trembling no matter how hard they clenched them. Sweat slicked their shirt, stomach still pitching like it hadn’t realized yet that they weren’t about to get eaten.

But somehow, they made it—barely—as the Jeep rolled in.

Bright Eyes waved weakly, hunched over, still wheezing. “Hey guys,” he managed, voice raw.

Rayne tried to sound casual, like they hadn’t just sprinted through a literal forest twice, but their words came out breathless. “How was the field trip?”

Long Hair jumped in first, voice sharp. “Oh, well, Ben fell in love with a dino,” she shot a look at Eyesore, “and Superstar here got us booted from the lab.”

Eyesore opened her mouth—probably to defend herself—but Minyard cleared her throat.

The head counselor’s eyes scanned them—fixing on their sweaty, dirt-smeared, shaking mess of a trio. Her gaze lingered too long, and Rayne’s pulse spiked all over again. Their throat was dry, palms slick, every nerve screaming don’t blow it.

“Why are you three so out of breath?” Roxie finally asked.

Bright Eyes tried to play it cool. “Just… doing our job,” he said with a wheeze he couldn’t hide.

Sunglasses, always one word away from spilling too much, puffed up. “You should’ve seen how I owned the—”

“This awesome experience,” Rayne cut in fast, shooting him a glare sharp enough to decapitate. Their voice wobbled, but they shoved through. “Real character-building stuff. Lots of poop. Very reflective. Three out of ten, would not recommend.”

Sunglasses caught the look and clamped his mouth shut.

Minyard narrowed her eyes. The silence dragged. Rayne’s pulse thundered in their ears—almost as loud as Toro had been. Then, finally, she nodded. “Alright. Hit the showers.”

She paused. Caught a whiff.

“…Maybe stay in there for a while.”

As the Jeep pulled away, Vampy called after them, nose pinched. “And use soap. LOTS of soap.”

The three of them started the long limp back to the cabin. Rayne’s legs shook so badly they nearly buckled with each step.

“Oh my God,” Bright eyes muttered. “Two near-death experiences in two days? That’s gotta be a record.”

He looked at Sunglasses. “We can’t tell anyone about Toro. If Roxie finds out, we’re on the next ferry out.”

Sunglasses groaned. “Seriously? So no one’s gonna know how I saved your life?”

Rayne raised an eyebrow, still shaking. “And how I saved both of yours.”

Bright eyes gave Rayne a small, exhausted smile. “Yeah. What Rayne said. And I’ll know, Kenji.”

For once, Sunglasses didn’t make a joke. He smiled.

Rayne blinked. Huh. Maybe he wasn’t completely useless.

Well—aside from the fart theories.

“You do know farts didn’t kill the dinosaurs, right?” Bright eyes said, did he just read Rayne’s mind?

Sunglasses threw his arms up. “Prove me wrong, yo.”

Bright eyes sighed. “There’s literally mountains of proof—” He stopped himself. “You know what? Not tonight. Shower first. Then we’re doing a whole lecture on atmospheric science.”

Sunglasses nodded solemnly. “The scientists have their big, complex theory, and I have my simple theory.”

“He’s hopeless,” Rayne muttered, nudging Bright eyes with an elbow that still felt weak from adrenaline.

Darius just laughed.

Chapter Text

Day ???
March 31, 2010

Jazzquine Flintlock couldn’t stop pacing. Back and forth, back and forth, each step hitting the floor too hard, too fast, as though the scuffed linoleum might give way if she only punished it enough. If she could wear a hole through it, maybe she could also wear a hole through the chaos clawing at her chest.

Her black curls were a matted snarl, sticking out in every direction, each strand defiant and wild. Grease slicked her fingers when she dragged them through the mess again, for what felt like the hundredth time, and this time her nails caught on the grit of dandruff near her scalp. The sensation made her grimace, made her skin crawl. Her hands dropped, trembling at her sides, but before long they were back in her hair, pulling, twisting, clawing for some kind of order that would never come.

Mascara streaked down her face in crooked, uneven lines. She caught sight of herself in the glass door across the room—black smears cutting downward, a grotesque parody of bruises she hadn’t earned. The lines were uneven. Crooked. Wrong. Just like everything else about today, just like everything else about her.

Her breath hitched, sharp and ragged, filling her lungs too fast, too shallow. The reflection in the door blurred, but not enough to erase it. Not enough to erase the woman staring back at her.
“Écoeurante,” she spat at her own image. [Disgusting.] The word slipped out before she could catch it, heavy and bitter, dripping with the venom she usually kept bottled deep. She curled her hand into a fist so tight her nails dug into her palm. The sting was welcome. If she hurt enough on the outside, maybe—just maybe—the storm inside would quiet.

Seventeen. That was the last time she had seen Jacques. She was seventeen when she’d been shoved out—when her family had cut her loose like trash left at the curb. She had walked away with nothing but her stubbornness and the raw scrape of rejection eating into her skin. And now—two whole decades later—this.

A phone call. A stranger’s voice telling her that Jacques had been dead for two years. That he had worn a uniform. That he had worn a ring. That he had a wife, had children, had a life. A whole life, fully built, without her.

Her stomach twisted hard enough to hurt. Every thought in her head sharpened into another blade aimed at herself. She hadn’t been there. She hadn’t called. She hadn’t tried. She hadn’t known. She hadn’t known.

And now—now she was supposed to step into a role she had never wanted, never prepared for. Guardian. Aunt. Caretaker of a nine-year-old already branded intelligent, traumatized, a problem child. Words heavy as chains. Words she was certain would be too much for her to carry.

Her chest tightened. The air in the office felt too thin, the buzzing fluorescent lights too loud. She hated surprises—hated being shoved off balance, hated how quickly her careful order unraveled into chaos. She hated herself most of all, hated the pathetic creature pacing circles in this government office, a wreck of mascara and hair, trying to convince herself she was capable of anything. Hated that the only piece of Jacques she had left in the world was a child he’d never prepared her for, a child who deserved someone infinitely better than this.

With unsteady fingers, Jazz pulled her phone from her pocket. She nearly dropped it twice before she managed to focus on the screen. Five minutes. Five minutes until the appointment with the social worker.

Her eyes caught on the name printed neatly in her emails: Rayne.

Her breath snagged in her throat. Rayne. Her name is Rayne? She mouthed it silently, testing the syllables, tasting them like poison. Her jaw tightened until her teeth ached. Jacky, why the hell did you name her Rayne? The thought stuck sharp in her chest, equal parts grief and resentment, burning her throat as it tried to claw its way out.

She scrolled further, catching on the next neat line of print: Ms. Bertrim. Jazz’s lips curled. The bitterness spilled faster than she could stop it. The name sounds so fucking pretentious.

The absurdity of it all cracked something loose inside her. A sound burst out of her chest before she even knew it was coming—a harsh, barking laugh that sliced through the silence.

The sound ricocheted off the sterile walls, startling the wide-eyed intern who had been quietly watching her unravel for the last ten minutes. Jazz slapped her hand over her mouth too late, pulse spiking, shame flaring hot under her skin.

The heat crawled higher, unbearable. She wanted to slam her forehead against the wall—hard enough to leave a mark, hard enough to wake up from this nightmare. Maybe if she drew blood, maybe if pain split her open, she’d find this was nothing but her tired subconscious inventing another cruel trick out of loneliness.

But no. The bleach-stained walls, the buzzing lights, the minutes ticking down—they were real. Every one of them was real.

Her gaze fell back to her phone, though the numbers blurred into gray smudges. She wondered, distantly, how the girl she was about to meet would react to her. Would she cry? Would she panic? Would she hate her on sight?

What had her brother left behind in this world?

Would the girl look like him—or like his wife? Jazz couldn’t even remember the woman’s name. The moment the man on the phone had said the words everything after had turned to static.

She hadn’t heard the details. Hadn’t wanted to. The only thing she managed to cling to was that Jacques had taken his wife’s name, built a family, built a life—one that had never included her.

The sound of a door opening snapped her back, too loud, too sharp. A woman stepped into the waiting area—a Black woman with a kind, open face, her expression marked by professional calm but edged with concern as her eyes fell on Jazz.

“Ms. Flintlock?”

Jazz’s throat bobbed, her mouth too dry to answer, so she only gave a stiff nod. Her legs carried her forward on instinct, the rhythm of her boots loud against the tiled floor as she followed. The social worker led her down the hall, around a corner that felt like a point of no return.

The nearest door on the left stood open, a rectangle of pale light spilling into the hallway. Jazz’s stomach knotted as her gaze flicked inside.

A small figure sat within. Slim shoulders, slight height. Dark brown hair—shaggy, uneven, messy—falling in curtains to her shoulders. Jazz’s breath hitched and caught in her chest, held there as though she could stop time by refusing to exhale.

Across from the child sat a woman. Slim, tall, straw-blonde hair parted neatly and ironed so straight it looked like it might snap if bent. Her smile stretched across her face with the stiffness of plastic, a smile so fake Jazz wondered if the woman had gotten stuck that way years ago.

This must be Ms. Bertrim.

The stiff-postured woman turned her brown-eyed gaze toward Jazz, her expression flat, almost underwhelmed. Jazz didn’t blame her. She knew she looked like a mess—wrung out, frayed at the edges—and first impressions weren’t exactly her strong suit.

The child, maybe noticing the shift in the woman’s attention, turned.

And Jazz—Jazz stopped breathing. Her lungs locked as her eyes drank in the sight of the girl. Slim, fragile, impossibly familiar. A mirror of Jacky. Her Jacky. The resemblance was so sharp it hurt.

Water pooled at the corners of Jazz’s eyes and she blinked furiously, desperate to dam it back. The only difference was the eyes—those mercury-colored, storm-gray eyes that shattered the illusion of perfection. Jacky had their maman’s green eyes. Jazz did too. The girl’s eyes must have come from her mother.

Jacky had inherited their mother’s wavy curls, while Jazz had Papa’s black hair—thick, unruly, impossible to tame.

A dark, grief-splintered thought sliced through her: if she could just take those eyes, swap them for green, the child would be flawless. The perfect replica of her baby brother.

The thought made her stomach lurch. And then the girl spoke—soft, uncertain—and shame crashed over Jazz in a wave so fierce she wanted to fold in on herself. How could she think something so monstrous? She didn’t deserve even this fragile, terrifying chance.

“T’es qui, toi?” Her voice was quiet, a little deep for a child, and she regarded Jazz like a bug she was about to squash beneath her shoe. [Who are you?]

“Bonjour Rayne, moi, je suis ta tante.” [Hello Rayne, I'm your auntie.]

Day 3

Yasmina moved into the communal kitchen, still in her running gear, feeling the absence of her phone and playlist like a missing limb. She hummed in mild annoyance, scanning the room, and froze when her eyes landed on Rayne at the sink, downing a cup of water in record time.

Her gaze lingered a second too long as their throat bobbed, and a few drops slid down, tracing a line along their skin. Her stomach twisted in immediate self-disgust. No. She mentally smacked herself, scrubbing the thoughts clean and shoving them into the corner of her mind.

She leaned a little closer, trying to figure out why the younger teen was up so early. Their hair was a wild halo of dark curls, puffed in every direction as if it had wrestled sleep and lost, with random cowlicks sticking stubbornly skyward. They wore the same red, thin, long-sleeved shirt and running shorts from the first day—not unlike Yasmina’s own outfit. Oh no, please no.

She must have made a noise because Rayne stopped mid-drink and turned toward her.

Time froze. Their eyes met, and both froze. Yasmina couldn’t look away. Rayne didn’t look away. And just like that, the kitchen became the stage for the most awkward staring contest Yasmina had ever experienced.

Thankfully, Rayne broke the silence—with worse news.

“Ah… are you going on a run as well?” Their morning voice was deeper than usual, accent thick, and utterly disarming. Yasmina felt her poor, poor heart perform a gymnastic move she herself found impressive.

And then—the gymnast fell straight off the balance beam when Yasmina registered the “as well” part.

Fuck. Well, there goes my peace.

“No,” Yasmina said on instinct, before she could think better of it.

“No, I mean… yes. Yes, I am going on a run. Are you?” YOU FUCKING IDIOT WHAT DO YOU MEAN ‘ARE YOU’???

“Right. Never mind. Of course you are,” Yasmina muttered, kicking herself silently for sounding so awkward, her heart still doing cartwheels in her chest.

Rayne stared at her for a long moment, unblinking, and Yasmina felt her face heat up, cherry-red spreading from her ears to her neck. She prayed, please let the sun be angled just right, hoping the light would throw a shadow across her face and hide her shame.

“Do you mind if I join you?” Rayne asked, taking a slow sip of water. The pause gave Yasmina precious thinking time—which, of course, did absolutely nothing because she was still panicking.

“Sure,” she muttered, her voice tighter than she intended.

Then, almost without thinking, she started walking toward the elevator, completely abandoning her original purpose of grabbing a water bottle. The kitchen faded behind her. Fuck hydration, she thought.

☽─━★─━★─━★☾

Running with Rayne wasn’t so bad, Yasmina thought, keeping her pace steady as they jogged around a corner. Surprisingly, Rayne was a very good runner, able to keep up with her constant stride—which, by most jogging standards, was still pretty fast.

For the first time that morning, Yasmina felt a faint thread of ease weaving through her nerves, though she wasn’t about to admit it out loud.

She slowed to a walk and took a sip from the water bottle Rayne had snagged from the fridge for her. No. Yasmina was not touched by the gesture. Shut up, brain.

The awkwardness crept back, uninvited, and Yasmina tried to fill the silence with something she actually understood: sports. “I… uh… didn’t know you run?”

“My aunt is a doctor,” Rayne explained with a casual shrug, voice carrying a what can you do about it? tone. “For dinosaurs—or not—she expects me to take care of my health, so exercise is normal for me.”

“I don’t run that often, though. My usual physical activity is climbing.” Rayne demonstrated with a surprisingly convincing imitation of rock climbing, fingers and feet moving as if scaling a wall. Yasmina couldn’t help but notice how… frankly adorable it looked.

“Lots of rock climbing trails in Canada?” she asked, a little fascinated, as they started running again. Rayne quickly caught up, keeping three steps behind.

“Not many, really—at least not near Montreal,” Rayne replied, accent thick and lilting with every word. “There’s the artificial wall at Parc Jean-Drapeau. And I’ve climbed the crag at Mont Rigaud.”

Yasmina’s lungs seized a bit at the words—each syllable carrying the accent like a jolt—and she coughed, heart racing, while trying to keep pace.

“Are you alright?”

“Yep!”

“Hmm… what about you?” Rayne asked. Yasmina glanced back in confusion. What?

“Do you do any sports besides track?” Rayne clarified. Yasmina waited to answer until they passed a small bridge arching over the river, letting the rhythm of their steps settle her words.

“I did swimming for three years. A little bit of kickboxing too, but both were mostly for conditioning for track,” she said, shrugging slightly, trying to keep the conversation casual.

“When did you start track?”

A familiar question. Yasmina had done a few interviews—she knew this one well. “Seven years old,” she replied without hesitation.

Rayne went quiet after that. And just like that, the silence stretched, long and heavy. Yasmina’s mind immediately began to spiral: Had she said something wrong? Did she sound boring? Was Rayne silently judging her form, her answer, her entire existence?

Her steps faltered, just slightly, as the anxiety coiled in her chest, squeezing tighter with every second. Time warped—minutes stretched into hours.

Finally, Rayne broke the silence. “Hm. We should head back.”

“Yes!” Yasmina answered too quickly, too brightly, eager for escape.

She picked up the pace, only to discover—much to her dismay—that Rayne could keep up with her just fine, stride for stride, all the way back to the treehouse entrance.

☽─━★─━★─━★☾

Rayne walked beside Long Hair as the elevator doors slid open—and was immediately smacked in the face by the warm, unmistakable smell of breakfast food. Their stomach growled on cue. Long Hair’s did too. Without a word, the two drifted in the same direction, sweat and forest still clinging to them, lured by the promise of food.

Still sticky with sweat and streaked with dirt, they slipped into the half-awake chaos of campers shuffling through the dining hall—yawning, stretching, bumping shoulders with drowsy apologies.

Long Hair dropped into a chair across from Rayne. Neither of them had bothered to change, workout clothes damp and rumpled, but it didn’t seem to matter in the blur of clattering trays and half-finished conversations.

“So nice of you two to join us,” Minyard said dryly, setting down a plate stacked high with pancakes in front of them.

“What, I can’t go running?” Long Hair snapped, snatching up an empty cup and pouring orange juice with more force than necessary.

“You can,” Minyard replied evenly, “but you’re supposed to have one of us with you.”

“I’m fifteen! I don’t need a babysitter. And I wasn’t alone—Rayne was there too!”

Rayne, mid-bite, just lifted their fork and pointed toward the fridge. A ripped water bottle label was stuck there under a pink Corythosaurus magnet, the little blue mountain logo nearly hidden under thick black marker: Be back at 7. Going on run – Rayne/Yasmina.
“I left a note,” they said.

“Yes, thank you, Rayne.” Minyard’s tone shifted back toward Long Hair. “Look—you can go running. Just wait until Dave or I are awake so we can go with you.”

Long Hair scoffed. “You wouldn’t be able to keep up! I’d just be by myself anyway.”

“You don’t know—Dave is plenty fast!” Minyard shot back.

“What?” Wymack mumbled around a mouthful of pancakes.

“Congratulations, Dave,” she said, sliding into a seat and filling her plate. “You just volunteered for extra morning exercise. You’ll be joining Yasmina or Rayne on their runs. You’re useless in the kitchen anyway.”

Long Hair slammed her palms on the table, rattling every cup and fork. “Urgh!” she groaned before stomping off.

Well, this is awkward, Rayne thought, taking another bite from their stack. Conversation slowly restarted around them, and they relaxed, finishing only a third of their plate before nudging the rest in Cowgirl’s direction. She didn’t even glance up before inhaling it, and Rayne watched in quiet fascination.

They stood, slipping away with no protest, and poured some of the “healthy smoothie” Long Hair had blended yesterday into a glass—straw included.

Wandering the treehouse, they checked their shared room with the three girls (yeah, no). The big theater (nope). Living room (still no). Three washrooms (nada). Gym (empty).

No Long Hair.

Frustration started to creep in, but Rayne shook it off. Back through the common room, scanning again, their eyes caught on something shiny.

A ladder.

Bolted right into the wall, leading up to a trapdoor in the ceiling. Rayne blinked, feeling a little dumb for missing it before. Balancing Long Hair’s “liquid breakfast” carefully in one hand, they climbed the rungs slow and steady, making sure not to spill a drop.

Pushing the trapdoor open, Rayne poked their head out—and spotted her. Relief washed through them.

“I brought you breakfast,” they announced.

Long Hair gasped, nearly dropping her pencil over the balcony railing. She snatched it back at the last second, spinning on Rayne with a hand clutched to her chest.
“Jesus! When did you get here? And—what?” she sputtered, half scolding, half breathless.

“What?” she asked dumbly.

Rayne sighed, shifting the cup to one hand. With the other, they carefully took the pencil from her fingers—slow, deliberate, giving her every chance to pull away. When she didn’t, they set it safely on the ledge.

Just as gently, Rayne guided her hand open, pressed the glass into her palm, and lifted it toward her face.
“Drink,” they said.

Long Hair frowned and tried to tug her hand back. “I don’t need—”

“Yes, you do.” Rayne’s voice left no room for argument.

“I’m fine.” But the word cracked, betraying her. She glanced at the glass, then at them, torn between pride and need.

Rayne didn’t push. They just waited, steady, their hand still resting against hers.

Finally, with a huff, Long Hair relented and took a cautious sip.

“There,” Rayne said simply, releasing her at last.

Their skin burned where they’d touched, the phantom heat refusing to fade. The urge to plunge their hand into cold water lingered as they watched her drink.

“There. Now can you leave me alone?” Long Hair snapped, her tone still sharp from the earlier fight.

“Are you still hungry?” Rayne asked instead of answering.

“What—no! I just drank that entire glass!” She gestured with a flick of her hand, exasperated.

“Okay.” Rayne accepted the words without argument, taking the empty glass. Their task complete, they turned to leave.

A sound caught them—half a noise, half a breath.

“U-Um—” Long Hair’s voice faltered. “You can… stay?”

Rayne froze, then nodded, moving carefully down the ladder with the empty glass. They navigated the hall quietly, avoiding anyone’s notice, and retrieved their little comforts—contraband, journal, writing utensils, a few colorful extras—before slipping back into the kitchen to set the glass in the sink. Wymack’s off-key singing drifted over the clatter of dishes, and Rayne ducked out before he could spot them.

Back at the ladder, Rayne climbed swiftly and quietly, unobserved. “I’m back,” they announced softly.

Long Hair’s shoulders jolted, tension flickering through her spine before easing again. She didn’t look at them.

“I brought entertainment.”

Rayne set the bundle down between them, sliding the iPod into view like a magician revealing a trick.

Long Hair gasped. “I thought they banned all electronics!” Her eyes widened, locked on the little device like it was some kind of forbidden relic. She reached out, then hesitated, hand hovering just above it as if touching it might make it vanish. “Where did you even—” She cut herself off, cheeks heating with something between awe and embarrassment.

Rayne smirked faintly, shoulders lifting in a nonchalant shrug. “I have my ways.”

Long Hair finally risked picking it up, turning it over carefully in her hands as though it were a fragile, holy artifact. For the first time that evening, her annoyance gave way to wonder.

While she was distracted, Rayne’s gaze drifted toward the book balanced on her lap. A black sketchbook—unmarked, plain, except for the faint embossing of a brand name near the corner.

Rayne extended their hand, palm up in quiet expectation. Long Hair huffed and rolled her eyes, but obediently placed the iPod back into their hand. Without comment, Rayne flicked through the screen, settled on a random playlist out of dozens, and pressed play.

A song filled the air, unfamiliar to Rayne but not to her. Long Hair’s expression softened in recognition. Almost unconsciously, she swayed to the rhythm, her shoulders loosening, her earlier sharpness melting away. The pencil found its way back into her fingers, the sketchbook cracking open—until she suddenly froze.

Her head snapped up, eyes narrowing at Rayne in a sharp glare.

Rayne blinked, feigning innocence, and looked away. Without comment, they crossed to a nearby lawn chair and sank into it, stretching out until they found a slouch that passed for comfortable. Pulling their journal onto their lap, they uncapped a pen and bent over the page, letting the scratching of ink serve as their reply.

Dear Rowan,

Sorry I didn’t write yesterday. I almost died.
I’m sure you understand how that sort of thing rearranges your priorities. My hands still feel unsteady even now. Last night it followed me into sleep—a nightmare.

A silver lining, though. Something new. This time I was running at night, not in the middle of the day. The same forest, but thicker, darker, more closed in than when Bright Eyes, Sunglasses, and I tore through it before. Yes, those two idiots were the ones who dragged me into that mess.

The moonlight cut through the canopy in narrow strips, just enough to keep me moving forward. Behind me—footsteps. Heavy. A theropod’s. Always close enough to hear, never close enough to see. Never too far.

I ran, and ran, and ran. It was endless. My chest heaved, breath ragged, but somehow my legs never gave out. The path finally opened to the feeding gate—the same one we squeezed through last time. But now it was blocked.

There was a body caught in the grate. Torn in half. Blood everywhere, organs spilling through the bars like someone had tried to force them through. The air reeked of iron, sharp and wet. I remembered how Bright Eyes had gotten stuck there, just for a second, how close we’d been to losing him. We pulled him free that day.

But it wasn’t Bright Eyes.

It was you.

Rayne’s pen dug too hard into the page. They stopped, staring at the last line until the letters blurred. Then they snapped the journal shut, harder than they meant to, like slamming a door against something that might follow them out.

Their pulse thudded in their throat. The image lingered, raw and sticky—Rowan’s face twisted among the blood and ruin, the metallic stench clinging like it had seeped into their skin. Rayne flexed their hand around the pen, half-expecting it to come away red.

They sucked in a breath. Nothing. Just air. Just wood and dust and the faint sweetness of fruit from Long Hair’s perfume. No iron. No gore. But their body didn’t care about logic; it still braced for it, like they’d never get the phantom smell out of their nose.

Rayne glanced up. Long Hair hadn’t noticed. She was bent over her sketchbook, dragging her pencil in long, sure strokes across the page. Not writing. Drawing. The steady scratch of graphite against paper grounded the silence.

Rayne breathed and breathed, silently, dragging air deep into their lungs and forcing it back out again. All of their attention narrowed onto Long Hair’s hands—the sure way her fingers shifted, guiding the pencil without hesitation. Line after line. Curve after curve. An image slowly taking shape where a blank page had been.

☽─━★─━★─━★☾

Yasmina didn’t draw people. Or more accurately—she couldn’t. Landscapes, animals, anything else, sure. But whenever she tried to capture a person, something about them slipped away in the lines.

Still, with Rayne’s playlist humming in the background and the teen sitting just a few feet away, lost in their own world, the thought that pushed to the front of her mind was simple, stubborn: I want to draw them.

She started light, loose. The outline of their lithe frame, the definition in their arms. She let her eyes linger on Rayne more than the page, tracing the angle of their head, the way they hunched slightly over their journal. Only small glances downward to make sure the proportions made sense.

It was coming together well—technically good, maybe the best she’d managed with a person. But when her pencil paused at the eyes, something was missing. The expression felt hollow, like she’d drawn a shell.

Her brows furrowed. At first glance, it was Rayne, absolutely. But not really them.

Then Rayne shifted, their brow drawing downward, the faintest crease of thought settling across their face. Yasmina’s pencil scrambled to keep up, desperate to catch it before it slipped away.

She glanced back at the page and frowned, dissatisfied. It was unmistakably Rayne, but not right. The image felt hollow. There was no emotion in it—not just because real-life Rayne’s expression was usually blank, but because the body language was wrong. She hadn’t caught the tension in their shoulders, the small things like the sunburned lips, the faint creases around their eyes.

Most of all, the eyes themselves lacked the intensity of the real thing. The Rayne on paper looked more like a statue than a person.

So Yasmina tried again. And again.

She sketched them mid-drink, glass tipped back. Still wrong. She tried their posture while seated, the slouch of their shoulders. Wrong again. Page after page, the lines refused to breathe.

The last one, though… the last one came closer. Rayne standing over her, steady and unyielding, watching her drink the smoothie they’d practically forced into her hand. That look—sharp, commanding, almost too much—bled through in her strokes.

It wasn’t perfect, not even close, but it caught something. A spark. A presence. The longer she stared at it, the more her stomach turned in knots.

She was just about to start again—this time from when they’d run together earlier, when their banter had almost felt easy. Yasmina sketched the outline of their heart-shaped face, the gaunt lines of their features, the high cheekbones, the nose with that barely-there slope. Her pencil slowed, trying to capture it—never quite right, always slipping.

“What are you drawing?”

The voice made her jolt. Of course. The very person she couldn’t fucking draw properly, the nuisance themself. For a split second she almost answered honestly—almost—but then the three pages she’d already filled with their face flashed across her mind. Heat surged up her neck, blooming across her cheeks.

“None of your damn business!” she snapped, sneer curling her lips before she could stop it.

Rayne didn’t so much as blink. Not a flinch, not a comeback. Just a slow, deliberate nod, like they’d heard something important and understood completely.

The gesture was infuriating.

Yasmina’s chest prickled with irritation. If they’d yelled back, if they’d rolled their eyes or snapped at her, it would’ve made sense—she could’ve pushed back, met fire with fire. But this? This steady, infuriating calm? It unsettled her more than any argument could have.

Her indignation only grew sharper, crackling under her skin like static.

Yasmina scowled harder, as if she could force a reaction out of them by sheer will. Her pencil dug into the page, leaving a dent where she hadn’t meant one. Perfect. Now the sketch was ruined.

Rayne, meanwhile, just shifted slightly in their chair, flipping their pen between their fingers like they hadn’t just caught her red-handed. Their grey eyes flicked briefly to her lap, where her sketchbook was open, then away again. Not nosy, not prying. Just noticing.

That was worse.

“Don’t you have something better to do?” she snapped, sharper than she intended.

They tilted their head. “Probably,” they said mildly. No defense, no edge. Like they were humoring her.

The voice made her jolt. Of course. The very person she couldn’t fucking draw properly—the nuisance themself.

Yasmina froze, pencil still hovering over the page. She thought about answering, but then her eyes flicked down—three whole pages filled with nothing but them. Heat rushed to her face, creeping up her neck like wildfire.

“None of your damn business!” she snapped, lips curling before she could stop them. Her voice came out harsher than she intended, edged with panic.

Rayne didn’t flinch. Not even a twitch. Just sat there, calm as ever, watching her like they’d expected that answer all along.

Her cheeks burned hotter. No satisfaction in the bite. No spark to latch onto. Just that maddening, steady calm.

When they gave a little nod, as if to say fair enough, Yasmina’s stomach twisted. That was worse than if they’d barked back. If they’d yelled, she could have yelled louder. But this—this quiet, easy shrugging-off—felt like being dismissed.

Her indignation surged, covering something else crawling under her ribs. The same something that had made her sketch them over and over, desperate to catch even a fragment of the spark that made them impossible to ignore.

Yasmina slammed her sketchbook shut with a crack. “Forget it,” she muttered, half at them, half at herself. She shoved the pencil behind her ear and pushed to her feet, storming out of her hiding place.

Annoying kid. Annoying pen. Annoying face. Annoying eyes.

Eyes she still couldn’t draw right.

☽─━★─━★─━★☾

Long Hair’s footsteps faded, sketchbook hugged tight against her chest.

Rayne hummed under their breath, the sound shifting into a sigh. Shouldn’t have asked. Messed up again.

They flipped their journal open, pen moving quick.

Note to self: Don’t ask Long Hair about drawings. Ever.

They paused, tapping the pen against the page. Her face had gone red—embarrassment? Anger? Both? They weren’t sure. The snap in her voice hadn’t matched the flush in her cheeks. Confusing.

Rayne wrote again, smaller this time:

They underlined don’t twice, then closed the journal with a soft thump.

When they turned back to their letter, the words came slower, careful:

But it wasn’t Bright Eyes.

 It was you.

I pissed off Long Hair. She likes her privacy, and I asked about her sketchbook. She yelled at me, then herself, and left.

They hesitated, tapping the pen against the margin, before adding:

I have a feeling you’d be better with people than I am. I’ll ask Marisol what to do in this situation when we talk next.

From,

R.E.D

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

Chapter Text

Day 4

Kenji listened with rapt attention as Darius spun his story, eagerly waiting for the good part—would Jessica and her father Gerry escape the T. rex and make it to safety? He barely noticed Ben death-gripping his arm. 

The kid’s hold was surprisingly strong, especially for someone with such wimpy arms. And no, Kenji was not folding at the touch. His skin was not on fire, and he was definitely not overwhelmed.

“We thought it’d be fun. We thought we’d be safe. But we didn’t realize the horror waiting for us on the island—claws, teeth, screaming… so much screaming,” Darius said lowly, his tone dropping like a ghost story.

“How much screaming?” Ben asked, his voice tight with trepidation.

“Shh, he’s getting to the good part!” Kenji snapped, leaning in.

“The T. rex stalked closer, her jaws opening wide—” Darius spread his arms for effect, his shadow stretching long and monstrous against the wall as the fire crackled viciously.

Oh God, Kenji thought, leaning closer as Ben clung tighter.

And then a burst of light blinded them. Kenji made a completely manly noise (thank you very much) of pain while Ben just about crushed the circulation out of his arm. 

The moment shattered, courtesy of Brooklynn’s (of course) camera—her grin slicing through the spooky atmosphere like a knife.

The pink-haired girl sat with one leg folded beneath the other, her full attention already back on her phone screen. “For the blog,” she explained breezily, before giving Darius a little wave. “Go on, keep telling your little story.”

Trying to rekindle the mood, Darius drew up the hood of his jacket and leaned forward again.

“Oh, here we go,” Kenji whispered as Darius puffed himself up, finally getting back into character.

“The T. rex stal—”

He was interrupted. Again. Of course. By the pink menace.

Kenji groaned and slumped forward, staring at the wooden floorboards of the balcony and questioning all his life decisions. At least Ben finally let go of his arm—thank the gods—because Kenji was sure there were bruises.

“Dang, out of space! Wait, sorry,” Brooklynn blurted, earning yet another groan from Kenji.

“I just don’t want to delete my selfie on Everest, you know?”

No. Kenji did not know. Because Kenji did not waste his time watching dumb YouTube channels made by thirteen-year-olds that was weird and cringe. 

Kenji Kon did not do cringe. He consumed prime entertainment—on his super awesome, very large, and extremely expensive TV. Like Esther Stone Highschool P.I.

Sammy oohed and ahhed at the photos while Darius looked so done Kenji almost laughed.

“Maybe I should start over.” Darius reached to pull his hood back up, but Ben interrupted, clutching Kenji’s arm again.

Kenji groaned in annoyance. Seriously? Couldn’t the wimp man up and stop using him as a teddy bear!?

“No! In fact, we should just stop!” Ben argued.

Kenji thought if he couldn’t handle it, he should just leave.

“Dude, chill—he’s not even telling the story. And how is your grip this strong?” Kenji grunted, trying to shake the wimpy bastard off. The younger boy only whined and clung tighter.

How was his grip even tighter? What the hell did this vegan stick-figure dumbass eat to get hands like a vice?!

“So the T. rex stalked clo—” Darius began again.

“Shouldn’t we call Yasmina and Rayne over? I'm sure they’d both love this story, you really are good at this." Sammy asked, glancing behind the group.

Yasmina was standing off to the side, brooding. She just seemed like the brooding type, at least to Kenji. And at the doors leading inside was Rayne—reading, probably. At least Kenji thought that’s what they were doing.

“Maybe she just wants to be by herself,” Brooklynn said, fiddling with her phone. Kenji swore she’d marry the thing if she could.

“Yeah, you know how sometimes people just wanna be left alone,” he added irritably, already regretting his brief, tragic lapse in judgment—offering his arm to the scared kid.

“Besides, Rayne’s maybe said a paragraph in the few days we’ve been here. Yasmina doesn’t seem like a people person at all, period.” Brooklynn waved off Sammy’s concern. 

Kenji was pretty sure her dislike came from the fact neither Rayne nor Yasmina cared for her channel. 

Yasmina blocked her face whenever Brooklynn filmed, and Rayne would glare until she gave up. They’d tolerate her occasionally—basic pictures, harmless stuff—but never talked about park secrets or gave her anything to post. Picking their battles, probably. 

Which explained why Brooklynn wasn’t as harsh on Rayne as she was on Yasmina.

“I think both are just a bit shy and don’t know how to make camp friends,” Sammy countered.

Brooklynn laughed. “There is nothing shy about Rayne or Yasmina. I’m pretty sure they just hate…being here. And, hello, are we forgetting what a major bitch Yasmina can be?”

Kenji winced at the reminder of yesterday’s blow-up. Everyone had been there except Rayne, who’d ghosted early—how they managed to wake up before eight was beyond him. 

Brooklynn had been pushing, Yasmina refused something, and then Brooklynn called her a pig, threatening to make it go viral. Yasmina, in turn, unleashed a storm of very long words Kenji hadn’t even known existed. 

The whole thing was painfully awkward; he didn’t even get to enjoy the catfight, since he’d only been heading to the kitchen for a snack.

Sammy braced to argue back, but to Kenji’s shock, the koala on his arm spoke up instead.

“She’s not that bad,” Ben said thoughtfully. “She’s always nice to me. A little rude, but overall…I like her.”

Brooklynn shot him a glare sharp enough to cut steel, and Ben withered in his seat. “Sorry,” he muttered.

The sky split open with a crack of thunder. Lightning flashed, and rain began to pour in sheets.

Shit. His hair!

“Maybe we should go inside!” Sammy yelped, covering her head with her arms.

Geez, you think?

“Way ahead of you!” Ben shouted, and Kenji was honestly surprised the kid could run that fast.

Thankfully, his hair survived the rainfall—the product he’d spent twenty whole minutes on hadn’t washed out. Small victories.

Getting into an argument and pissing off Brooklynn had been entertaining too; watching her face scrunch up while Ben smiled had actually made him feel…good. Yeah Kenji wasn't going to think about that.

He did feel a little bad for Yasmina, though. Sammy’s aggressive friendship proposition clearly hadn’t sat well with her. 

Then Kenji’s attention shifted, fascinated, as Sammy moved on to Rayne—who looked to be napping.

Kenji had no clue how the taciturn brunette could sleep through all this noise. Sammy woke them without realizing, and the grumpier-than-usual Rayne took it in stride. Somehow, the two actually seemed to be having an okay conversation.

Darius came in sulking—no doubt—and Kenji immediately hounded his steps, desperate to know what happened next to Jessica and Gerry.

This somehow spiraled into Kenji and Brooklynn on one team, and Ben and Darius on the other, violently playing foosball.

Kenji won, of course. He had plenty of practice. Sure, most of the time he played against servants—well, the ones who didn’t just let him win everything. 

Mia—or was it Maia?—was actually competitive. Too bad she worked in the Chicago house, not the Cali one. He only saw her maybe twice a year…

Shaking off the depressive thoughts as usual he puts on his performance and starts to tell Darius about his time bungee jumping.

☽─━★─━★─━★☾

The wide-open fields greeted the rising sun, its light breaking through the clouds left behind by last night’s storm. 

The air smelled of wet grass, laced with the sharp trace of ozone that lingered after a thunderstorm. Plus well animal.

Rayne watched the Sinoceratops grazing nearby and figured they were either going to enjoy this activity—or absolutely hate it. 

Hopefully it didn’t involve a lot of running; foot injuries were always a bitch to deal with.

They hadn’t had many, thankfully. Good footwear helped, and when episodes did hit, they were usually near Aunt Jazz and Marisol.

Thinking of the two made Rayne feel a twinge of homesickness—which, wow, wasn’t that weird?

Having a home to be homesick about still felt kind of strange, even half a decade later.

Rayne was shaken from their thoughts when Cowgirl and Bright Eyes started cheering, hyping each other up for the activity. Then they spotted the glass hamster balls—and, okay, maybe they felt a little excited themself. 

They actually haven’t rode in a gyrosphere before Aunt Jazz didn’t like them all that much.

Bright Eyes ran up to one of the glass orbs and pressed his face against it. “We get to drive gyrospheres? Cool!”

Wymack gestured with his clipboard. “Saddle up, guys and gals—and nonbinary pals!” He threw in a wink at the last part, and Rayne couldn’t help but smile, exasperated but glad to be included.

“We’re going on a cattle drive—but with dinosaurs! It’s a DINO DRIVE! WHA-WHAT!”

He struck a strange pose, his voice cracking halfway through. Minyard looked like she was dying from secondhand embarrassment, but she let him carry on with his antics.

“And just to be clear—all these dinosaurs are herbivores, right?” Vampy shuffled closer, looking apprehensive.

Rayne caught the spark of mischief in Minyard’s eyes a second too late.

“Well, they only chewed on the last kid a little, so we’re, like…99% sure.”
Vampy, somehow convinced she was dead serious, whimpered and backed away.

Minyard didn’t bother correcting him. Instead, she launched into the rundown. “Park personnel are moving a group of dinosaurs to fresh grazing lands across the island, and we get to ride alongside the herd.”

She turned toward the field, gesturing at the animals. The herd was smaller than the one they’d seen on the first day—mostly younger dinosaurs, with the Sinoceratops making up the bulk.

“Are you kidding me?” Bright Eyes pumped his fists and did a strange little wiggle. “Dinosaur migration patterns are my jam!”

“You may wanna consider a new jam, bro.” Sunglasses patted his shoulder.

He wandered over to Wymack and Minyard, draping a hand on each of their shoulders. “So, uh, these things are waterproof, right? It’s looking grim out here, and hair this awesome does not come easy.” He pointed at his bizarrely styled hair. Honestly, why did he style it that way?

“Your hair’s gonna be fine, Kenji,” Wymack sighed. “Storm’s already moved up the coast.”

Rayne tuned the conversation out, scanning the field to see where everyone had gone.

Eyesore had claimed the nearest gyrosphere, already glued to her phone. Long Hair wandered toward the one furthest away, Cowgirl bouncing after her with her usual uncontainable energy.

Rayne winced in sympathy—Cowgirl was… a lot.

They’d chatted with her the night before, when she’d casually asked about Marisol’s pet name for Rayne.

That had spiraled into a long tangent about cultural differences between Spanish communities in Texas, Montreal, and Costa Rica.

From the loud groan Sunglasses made, Rayne gathered he’d been paired with Vampy—which, honestly, threw off their original plan. 

The pale boy had seemed like the best option to ride with. That left them stuck with either Eyesore or the staff gyrosphere.

Easy choice.

Rayne made a beeline for the single-seater gyrosphere—the one nobody else had apparently noticed. If Long Hair had, she would’ve bolted for it ages ago.

Sliding inside, Rayne rapped their knuckles against the glass. Thick. Solid. Heavy enough that they wondered how fast this thing could actually move, and whether all that weight would make it sink like a stone if it ever hit water. 

Not that they're anywhere nearby. Rayne mentally unfolded the map of Isla Nublar they kept in their head—calculating distance by the jeep’s speed and direction earlier. By their estimate, camp sat roughly five miles straight northeast. 

Out here, southwest, the closest body of water was still a long way off.

They wrapped their fingers around the joystick and nudged it forward. The gyrosphere lurched maybe a foot before the built-in screen flickered to life. 

A white guy in a lab coat appeared, launching into a polished demo about controls, safety, and durability.

To prove his point, he drew a pistol and fired at the glass. The bullet flattened harmlessly against the surface.

Rayne scoffed. Perfectly safe, sure. Maybe against bullets—but not against a few tons of muscle, teeth, or momentum. 

One well-placed horn thrust, a clubbed tail, or just sheer bite force, and whoever was inside would be nothing but a mound of red meat and bone.

The jeep with the counselors rumbled ahead, and Rayne quickly slotted the white device into place, syncing it with their radio.

“—on channel six,” Minyard’s voice crackled through, followed by Wymack’s booming shout that made Rayne wince.
“Let the herding begin!”

The gyrospheres around them shot forward, scattering like kids at recess. Rayne eased theirs into motion, rolling with the group. 

Two spheres zipped ahead, and when they glanced back—after checking the path for dinosaurs—they caught sight of Vampy and Sunglasses.

Their gyrosphere wasn’t just moving. It was spinning. Slowly, awkwardly, like a washing machine on its last cycle.

Rayne rolled forward, picking up speed until they were ahead of most of the others. Scanning the four wheelers, they searched for anyone familiar. 

When a flash of a bandana caught their eye, they grinned in victory and steered closer, stealing a glance at a pair of Ankylosaurs snorting at each other as they lumbered along.

Fiddling with the comm, they switched to a different channel. Once close enough, they sang into the line, “Guess who?”

“Little Doc! Is that you?” Mateo’s voice crackled back, cheerful as ever. He glanced over his shoulder, grinning wide when he spotted their gyrosphere rolling alongside.

“Yes, it’s me. How are you?” Rayne asked, turning to their left as Mateo slowed his jeep to match their pace.

He wasted no time, diving into the latest D.U.M. gossip and pointing out every cute moment he’d noticed with the herd. In return, 

Rayne filled him in on camp life—skipping the dangerous parts, of course. That meant skipping most of Day 1’s night and all of Day 2. Days 3 and 4 had been fine… aside from their brief meltdown.

Mateo was just about to spill the scandal involving Dr. Han and his assistant Letty when the sky tore open with thunder, and a bolt of lightning lit up the field. 

Rayne froze as the bellow of a Stegosaurus echoed across the herd.

“Shit—that’s not good,” Mateo cursed, his voice tense as he grabbed the radio. “All staff, be on high alert! Speed up the herd and watch for strays!”

Rayne flipped back to channel six just in time to hear Roxie bark, “Everyone, fall back to the end of the herd—now!” Rayne waved goodbye to Mateo and rolled their gyrosphere back, quickly falling in line. They were the last to arrive.

As soon as the doors closed, Rayne stepped out, hearing the others’ loud protests about leaving so soon. 

Normally, they might’ve agreed—if it were good weather. But it wasn’t, and much of the herd was already visibly agitated.

“Hello? Hello? Can anyone hear me?” Minyard shouted into the radio, but all that came back was static and garbled voices.

“Okay, new plan,” Wymack called out, squinting at the stormy horizon. “The storm’s interfering with the radios, so Rox and I will drive ahead and tell the others we’re pulling out.”

He climbed back into the jeep, leaning out the window. “Stay together—and stay behind the herd!”

Rayne sighed, leaning against their gyrosphere as they studied the herd. Guess Mateo’s plan had changed—they were keeping the animals in place for a while. 

Letting them stick close made them feel more secure and cut down the chance of strays or spooking the younger ones.

Then lightning struck, and as if jinxed, a young Sinoceratops bolted in a panic. Rayne glanced over and saw one of the staff trying to alert the others, but trusting their competence—and knowing they wouldn’t be much help—they looked away, eyes on the stormy sky.

A crackle came over the comm—Cowgirl shouting something unintelligible—and when Rayne turned back, the rest of the group was racing after the panicked dinosaur.

Rayne followed, calling out, “Guys, stop! You’ll just make her run further—let the staff handle it!”

Their commands went ignored. Was it intentional, or was the storm messing with the comms? Rayne didn’t know, and honestly, it didn’t matter. By the time they arrived, the others had boxed the young Sinoceratops in.

In a display of pure idiocy, the youngest gyrosphere rolled right in front of the animal, its massive horn looming ominously.

“Darius, move!” Rayne yelled, but it was too late. The Sinoceratops lunged forward, horn aimed straight at the sphere. 

Thankfully, it didn’t pierce the glass or the kid inside—just slammed against the side, sending the gyrosphere spinning into the herd, colliding with legs and bodies as chaos erupted around them.

Screaming was all Rayne could hear as the herd split apart around them. They tried to stay as still as possible, but the momentum of the panicked animals slammed into their gyrosphere, sending it bouncing wildly over a blur of grey and brown bodies.

☽─━★─━★─━★☾

After last night at the campfire, Kenji had decided Ben wasn’t all that great—clingy, a total wuss. But now, crashing through the forest at insane speeds and wrestling over the controls, he was reevaluating.

Ben was so goddamn stubborn—embarrassingly cautious, by-the-book, and refusing to listen to him. Why did he have to be this way?

“Right! Go right!” Kenji barked. His voice almost got swallowed by the thunder cracking overhead. 

They swerved past a tree and a cluster of para-somethings—Kenji was pretty sure he’d pissed them off. Not that pissing things off was new for him.

Ben yanked the joystick left. “Left! Back to right!”

They skimmed a massive rock by inches, the gyrosphere rattling like it was about to shake apart. Kenji whipped around, staring in disbelief. Ben had his eyes closed. Closed. While driving.

“What the hell are you—? No, right! Back to left!” Kenji’s voice cracked with raw panic, knuckles bone-white as he clung to the controls.

The sphere zigzagged violently, trees and shadows smearing past in a blur. Kenji’s teeth clacked together so hard it stung. 

A flash of lightning split the sky, illuminating Ben’s face for a heartbeat—pale, jaw tight, blue eyes watering.

Kenji blinked. Was he… crying? No—his stomach dropped. The green tinge to Ben’s face made it click. Motion sickness.

“Oh, hell no,” Kenji groaned, panic spiking for a whole different reason. “You better not puke on me, Ben! I swear to God—”

The gyrosphere jolted again, cutting him off in a strangled yelp. He wasn’t sure what terrified him more—splintering against a tree or Ben redecorating his sneakers.

Ben jerked the joystick right. Kenji’s stomach flipped. They were about to slam into another tree.

“Are you kidding me?!” Kenji threw his whole weight into shoving it the other way. The gyrosphere lurched violently, hurling them both sideways.

Ben screamed as his head whipped toward the glass. Without thinking, Kenji grabbed him—arms clamping around his head and shoulders, shielding him from the impact. 

His chest slammed into Ben’s back, teeth rattling, but the glass stayed uncracked.

Kenji froze, arms still locked around Ben’s head. His heart hammered in his ears, louder than the thunder. What the hell did he just—?

Heat shot up his neck, and he shoved Ben away like he’d just touched a live wire. “This is why you should’ve let me drive in the first place!” he snapped, his voice pitching higher than he meant.

The gyrosphere groaned as it rolled again—finally slamming to a stop upside down. Both boys dangled from their seatbelts, blood rushing to their heads.

Ben let out a miserable groan, face greener than ever. “You’re the one who crashed us!”

“What—no, I’m not! You’re the one who wouldn’t let go of the freaking steering wheel!” Kenji shot back, squirming in his harness.

Ben glared, pale and shaky. “Kenji, I don’t care whose fault it is—just get us out of here!” He unclipped his buckled and fell on the top of the gyrosphere which was now the floor.

Kenji kicked uselessly against the glass, scowling to hide the heat still burning in his cheeks. “Ugh, fine!” Kenji fumbled with his buckle, muttering, “Still your fault, though—”

Click.

Kenji popped his buckle and dropped like a sack of bricks—straight onto Ben.

“GAH—Kenji!” Ben wheezed, arms pinned awkwardly to his sides.

Kenji scrambled, elbows and knees going everywhere, trying to get up without braining himself on the glass ceiling—or, technically, floor. “Sorry, sorry, just—ugh, this is—move your arm—”

“You move your arm!” Ben snapped, wriggling uselessly beneath him.

“Maybe don’t take up the whole gyrosphere!” Kenji fired back automatically. But then—he froze.

Because his hand had landed square on Ben’s chest. His face was inches from Ben’s. Their noses almost brushed.

His ears went hot. His brain screamed TOO CLOSE TOO CLOSE TOO CLOSE.

“I—uh—uh—” Kenji stammered, jerking back so fast he smacked the side of his head on the glass. “Ow!”

Ben shoved at him with a groan. “Get off me, Kenji!”

“I’m trying!” Kenji yelped, voice cracking, as he half-rolled, half-flopped into another graceless sprawl that left his leg tangled with Ben’s.

Outside, thunder cracked. Inside, Ben looked ready to throw up again, and Kenji was wishing the earth would just swallow him whole before anyone noticed how red his face had gotten.

Kenji shoved at the release hatch, but it barely budged. He gritted his teeth and slammed his shoulder into it. “Ugh—stupid piece of junk—open already!”

Ben groaned from where he was half-curled on the opposite side, looking greener by the second. “Kenji, hurry—”

“I am hurrying!” Kenji snapped, ramming it again. The door creaked, then stuck halfway. Rain was already splattering through the crack. “Would go faster if you helped!”

Kenji wedged his hands in and shoved, face scrunched, feet slipping against the tilted glass floor. “Almost—got it—”

With a loud crack, the door flew open, and Kenji tumbled out with a very undignified yell. He landed flat on his back in the mud, blinking up at the stormy sky.

“Smooth,” Ben muttered, climbing awkwardly after him.

Kenji scrambled upright, mud streaking his jacket, trying to look composed. “Hey, I loosened it! You’re welcome!”

“Loosened it?” Ben’s pale face twisted as he wobbled, arms circling his stomach. “You just broke it.”

Kenji crossed his arms, cheeks still flaming. “Whatever. At least we’re out. This is exactly why I should’ve been driving in the first place.”

“Driving us upside down?” Ben deadpanned.

Kenji faltered, sputtering. “That—was not—okay, that wasn’t my fault!”

When did he get so—so freaking sassy? Kenji shoved the thought aside, scanning the chaos around them.

“Where are we?” he muttered, more to himself than to Ben.

Ben hunched, stomach twisting, muttering under his breath.

The comms, still clutched in both their hands, rang suddenly. Brooklynn’s panicked voice cut through the static: “Help! Help! Can anybody hear me? Trapped… mudhole!”

Then—nothing. Only static.

“Brooklynn!” Kenji yelled, frantically pressing buttons, but there was no response.

“Shit!” he roared, frustration and adrenaline mixing in a dangerous cocktail.

☽─━★─━★─━★☾

Rayne stared at the destroyed front half of their gyrosphere in morbid amazement. The jagged edge of the rock had sheared through the glass like it was paper, holding the shattered panel suspended a good few feet in the air.

A crash of thunder rolled through the forest, rattling the trees and sending a shiver down Rayne’s spine. 

They hoped, silently and futilely, that the rain would hold off for at least another hour.

The comm crackled violently, cutting through the distant rumble of thunder. Static hissed and popped, and through it, Eyesore’s voice came, cracking with panic.

“…mudhole… help… anyone…?”

Rayne’s stomach sank. The words barely made sense over the interference, but the tone was unmistakable—sheer terror. 

“Merde! That’s not good.”

Rayne picked a direction and sprinted. Sunglasses and Vampy weren’t far ahead, weaving through the chaos after the herd had been spooked. 

Branches whipped past their face, mud squelching beneath their feet, and the distant bellows of the panicked dinosaurs kept their adrenaline pumping—probably the same adrenaline that kept their foot from bothering them too much.

So much for no running.

After a minute, Rayne spotted skid marks—gyrosphere tracks zigzagging wildly through the mud. 

Their stomach sank. Whoever had been driving had clearly lost control. Please be okay… Rayne thought, glancing around. 

They didn’t need another injury on top of Bright Eyes and Eyesore potentially meeting a muddy, grisly end.

“Shit!” Rayne heard Sunglasses yell nearby, frustration cutting through the chaos. Relief hit them hard—never been so glad to hear a familiar voice.

Pushing through the brush, they came into view of the two. Sunglasses was covered head-to-toe in mud, while Vampy looked remarkably clean despite the mess around them.

“You get no response also?” Rayne called, coming up behind them.

Vampy screamed at the top of his lungs in fear, jumping back a step too many, while Sunglasses tripped over his own feet, landing face-first in the wet, slippery ground once again.

“Rayne!” Vampy squeaked in relief, his voice cracking. His wide eyes darted around like he expected the next disaster to drop from the sky at any second. “Thank goodness!”

“Yep, I’m here. So?” Sunglasses grumbled, pushing himself upright with a grimace. He tried flicking mud off his jacket, but only succeeded in smearing it around.

“N-no response,” Vampy stammered, shivering. Rayne noticed the greenish tinge on his face, and it wasn’t fear making him look that way.

“Yeah, how did you even find us?” Sunglasses demanded, narrowing his eyes. “Me and Ben went all over the place. He’s a terrible driver, by the way. Total reason we crashed. In fact—”

Rayne raised a brow, cutting him off mid-rant.

Sunglasses followed the gesture of their hand, his words dying in his throat. The realization hit instantly: deep gouges in the mud, a messy, shallow path carved straight through the brush.

The gyrosphere tracks.

Rayne didn’t have to say a word—Ben and Kenji’s trail was obvious.

“Well, that explains how you found us,” Vampy muttered, worry pulling at his face. “But… how are we supposed to find Brooklynn and Darius?”

Rayne paused, replaying the chaos in their head. “Everyone bolted straight into the forest, right? If you guys were on my left and the others were on my right…”

Sunglasses snapped his fingers. “Then if we head right far enough, we’ll find more tracks! Perfect. Follow me—your awesome leader Kenji will lead the way!”

He promptly marched left.

Rayne pinched the bridge of their nose. Vampy just whimpered.

After some grumbling and backtracking—mostly retracing Rayne’s steps—they stumbled into a small clearing. Jutting out of a jagged rock like some kind of modern art piece was Rayne’s wrecked gyrosphere.

Sunglasses gawked. “How the hell did you get that up there?” He pointed in disbelief, mouth hanging open.

“You don’t wanna know.” Rayne brushed past him, eyes fixed on the ground as they scanned for tracks.

They pressed on until they came across two trees felled by the storm and a makeshift ramp of branches and sticks.

“Someone was trapped, then used the sticks as a ramp to get out,” Rayne explained.

“I–I found tracks!” Vampy called, pointing at the pressed dirt path and the messy line where someone had stumbled through.

“Good eye. Alright,” Rayne nodded, “let’s see if we can cut them off.”

☽─━★─━★─━★☾

Kenji was stunned that Rayne’s wacky plan had actually worked—so much so that he barely had time to process before he and Ben were nearly flattened by Sammy and Yasmina’s gyrosphere barreling past. 

Ben latched onto him again like a limpet, arms clamped around Kenji’s torso and face buried in his chest.

Rayne came crashing out of the trees a moment later, asking if they’d managed to contact Brooklynn or Darius. Not in so many words, of course—Rayne never seemed to use people’s actual names. 

Kenji couldn’t help wondering what their deal was with that. The only time he’d ever heard them call anyone by name was him—and even then it was Kon, his last name. He hated that. It didn’t feel like his name. It just meant Daniel Kon’s son. Not Kenji.

Anyway, being crammed into the gyrosphere was pure hell for Kenji—his height betraying him once again. He was squished shoulder-to-shoulder with Sammy in one seat, while Ben had claimed the other beside Yasmina. 

That left Rayne stuck in the middle behind them, wedged in the narrow strip of space that barely qualified as a seat at all.

“I’m pretty sure we’re exceeding the maximum occupancy in here,” Ben muttered.

“Would you rather we walk?” Yasmina shot back without missing a beat.

“I lost them—it’s just static!” Sammy cried, panic edging her voice as she jabbed at the controls.

“Stop!” Rayne barked. Yasmina yanked the gyrosphere to a halt, sending the unbuckled ones lurching forward.

“I hear something.”

Kenji twisted in his seat, ready to snap at the gray-eyed moron—until faint shouting cut through the storm. Brooklynn’s high-pitched voice rose above the noise.

Kenji’s stomach flipped—half from adrenaline, half from the spark of actually being useful. Yasmina steered the gyrosphere in the direction he’d pointed, slicing through the mud and chaos.

What they drove up to was horrific. The gyrosphere ahead had a gaping hole in it. Mud plastered every surface, streaking the shattered glass like some warped work of art. Inside, Darius and Brooklynn were barely visible—half-sunk, sliding forward with the remaining momentum. Somehow, they were still moving, stubbornly alive amid the mess.

Kenji swallowed, trying not to think about how close they’d come—or how much he wanted to crawl inside and help without actually admitting it.

Kenji stumbled forward, about to leap toward the half-sunk gyrosphere, when a firm hand yanked him back by the shirt.

“Hey! What gives? We need to help them!” he barked, panic lacing his voice.

“You can’t help them if you get stuck too, idiot!” Rayne snapped, their eyes scanning the treacherous mud around the gyrosphere. “We need a way to pull them out from a distance—something safe.”

Kenji blinked, chest heaving, and realized Rayne was right… though it did not make him feel any less useless. His stomach twisted in frustration—he wanted to charge in, grab the gyrosphere, and fix everything himself, but Rayne’s voice cut through the panic like a whip. 

They were scanning the mud, the broken glass, the stuck gyrosphere, eyes sharp and fast, calculating. Kenji hoped they knew what they were doing because he had zero ideas.

“Vines! Those vines!” Rayne snapped, pointing toward a cluster of thick, wet vines hanging from a toppled tree. “If we tie enough together and throw them through that hole in the glass, we can attach it to their console and pull them out!”

Kenji’s eyes widened. “Vines? Are you—are you serious?”

“Uh, guys?” Ben’s nervous voice piped up, trembling.

Yasmina yelped in fear, and Kenji whipped around. His stomach dropped. There it was—a massive Sinoceratops, easily twice the size of the one he’d helped corner before.

Sammy got up and strode toward the towering reptile.

“What are you doing?” Yasmina whispered, eyes wide with confusion.

Kenji watched, frozen, as the girl approached the massive beast, every step feeling like a car crash in slow motion.

“What? Wait!” Ben shouted, trying to stop her, but Sammy didn’t falter. Rayne remained silent, and Kenji noted with unease that they weren’t protesting either—whatever plan Sammy had, they were letting it unfold.

Sammy bent down and grabbed a large branch lying on the ground—one Kenji hadn’t even noticed. She stepped closer to the massive beast, flinching back as it let out a low bellow. Then she held the branch out again, voice calm but firm.

“Hey. I get it. Its hard to trust strangers. Its a scary world out there.” She holds a hand out to it like a fucked up HTTYD scene in real life.

“But… I’ll trust you if you trust me.”

Sammy stepped closer, slowly, and the Sino backed up slightly, wary. “I’m not gonna hurt you,” she murmured.

Carefully, she placed a hand on the dinosaur’s side, and then tossed the branch toward it. The beast happily munched on it, content.

Kenji’s jaw dropped. He felt like he’d just raided his dad’s hidden alcohol stash again—what the actual fuck had he just witnessed?

“Whoa,” Yasmina breathed, eyes wide in amazement.

The awe shattered, however, when Kenji remembered the two stuck in the mudhole. He had… kinda forgotten they were there.

“Guys?!” Darius called, panic creeping back in.

“Really touching and all,” came a muffled shout, “but we’re still gonna die! So, if you could, you know, actually help us, that would be much appreciated!” Yeah that was Brooklynn alright.

“Right—Kenji, climb that tree! Sammy, you’re on dino duty—tie the other end of the vine rope to the Sinoceratops. Ben, gather vines and toss them to Kenji so I can tie them together. Yasmina, throw the vine through the hole and grab something to wedge the door open!” Rayne barked orders, their voice sharp as a whip. Everyone snapped to attention at once, the weight of hearing their names in Rayne’s mouth for the first time locking them into focus.

“Darius, Brooklynn—stay calm and still. Don’t thrash, or you'll don’t sink faster. Keep trying to alert Dave and Roxie.”

Muffled voices of agreement came from the mud-covered glass of the sinking ball.

Kenji barely registered the words before instinct took over and he was hauling himself up the nearest tree. His expensive Vans slipped on the wet bark, every step a gamble, heart thudding so hard it filled his ears. 

He hadn’t climbed a tree in years—maybe the last time was when he was what, seven? Eight? Back when Mom was still alive.

It wasn’t graceful. His arms and legs screamed from everything they’d already been through, the humid air sitting heavy in his chest like wet wool. By the time he reached the top, sweat was stinging his eyes.

From up there, he caught sight of the others moving in frantic coordination below. Yasmina and Sammy were working together, looping vines and pulling them taut, muscles straining. 

Rayne’s hands flew, knotting and timing each twist faster than Ben could gather more vines to feed them.

 Yasmina jumped in again once she’d finished helping Sammy, who stayed rooted at the Sinoceratops’ side, murmuring to it, keeping it calm.

Kenji felt useless just sitting there in the tree, but then the other end of the rope was hurled his way. He fumbled—then caught it, thankfully—and tossed it down to Yasmina, who was crouched dangerously close to the edge of the mudhole. From up high, the gyrosphere was barely visible anymore, most of it swallowed by muck.

Yasmina whipped the rope out and it landed right across the opening. For a moment, nothing. Then—Kenji’s breath caught—a dark hand shot out and grabbed it hurriedly.

A few seconds passed that stretched like forever. His heart hammered so hard it hurt. Then, Darius shoved his hand out and gave a thumbs up. Relief hit—then panic all over again as the gyrosphere sank completely under, the brown sludge concaving in on itself where it had been.

Kenji sniffled, just a little—not that he’d ever admit it.

“Pull!” Rayne barked, voice cutting through the panic.

Sammy sprang into action, leading the Sinoceratops forward. The vines looped around its body tightened, straining, and with a groan of mud and ropes, the gyrosphere began to shift. Inch by inch, the beast hauled it free of the pit.

At last it emerged, caked in sludge. Yasmina didn’t hesitate—she grabbed the thick branch she’d chosen earlier and slammed it down into the crease where the door met the rest of the gyrosphere. With a protesting screech, it cracked open, and mud poured out in a gross waterfall.

Darius and Brooklynn spilled out after it, coughing, covered head to toe in muck, eyes a little red but alive—alive and fine.

Kenji scrambled down from his perch and ran over just as Sammy threw her arms up with a cheer of victory. Yasmina and the others joined in, shouts of relief and laughter breaking the tension like a popped balloon.

Kenji didn’t even fight it—he dropped right into the mud, accepting the fact that a good shower was the only way forward.

“OH GOD!”

Roxie’s voice cut like a gunshot. Kenji yelped and spun just in time to see the Jeep skid to a stop.

“What the hell happened!?” Dave demanded, eyes bugging out as he looked between the dinosaur, the ropes, the mud, and the kids.

Their twin looks of shock broke Kenji completely—he burst out laughing, wheezing as everyone else started shouting over one another.

“The herd—”
“Trapped in a mudhole—”
“A giant tree—”
“Kenji’s terrible driving—”
“Hey, it was your fault!”

“Okay! Okay!” Roxie cut through the noise, holding her hands out. “Everyone stay right here! And I mean it this time. Don’t. Move. An inch.”

She spun toward Dave, stabbing a finger at him. “You’re watching them.”

Dave threw his hands up in surrender, muttering, “Wasn’t gonna leave anyway.”

Roxie stalked back to the Jeep and snatched up the radio, her voice sharp as she called someone in.

Kenji flopped back down into the mud, sighing as the adrenaline drained out of him in one messy, sludgy wave.

☽─━★─━★─━★☾

Rayne stood off to the side, arms crossed, letting the medic and the herders swarm in. A vet they recognized—Dr. Dua—arrived with Mateo in tow, both of them immediately snapping into action. Within minutes, mud was being wiped away, eyes checked, pulses counted.

Once everyone was cleared of anything worse than bruises and scrapes, the two adults rounded on the group like a storm. Dr. Dua’s voice was sharp and clinical, Mateo’s more exasperated but just as firm. 

Together, they tore into them—lectures about risk, recklessness, rules, and responsibility, a tag-team interrogation that left even Sunglasses staring at his shoes.

Rayne didn’t interrupt. Didn’t need to. They just watched, silent as stone, while the others squirmed under the combined fire of Dua and Mateo.

And when it was finally over—when everyone was damp, muddy, chastised, and still very much alive—Rayne caught the way the others kept sneaking glances. Curiosity flicked back and forth between them, the vet, and Mateo, like the questions were sitting on their tongues but no one dared to ask outright.

Back at the treehouse, Rayne towel-dried their hair, restless fingers combing through damp strands. The journal felt heavier than usual in their hands, as if it too had soaked up the day’s chaos. They slipped away from the main room, scanning for somewhere quiet.

A quick glance around: Cowgirl and Long Hair were wrapped up in a hug near the balcony; Bright Eyes and Eyesore had claimed the couch, talking low; Sunglasses and Vampy had vanished, probably off to bicker or collapse somewhere out of sight.

Rayne sighed softly. The hidden loft was out of the question—too exposed, too easy to be spotted slipping in. Their eyes roamed the beams and ladders, the nooks and shadows the treehouse offered, until they settled on the idea of finding another spot. Somewhere quieter, more tucked away, where no one would think to follow.

Journal under one arm, towel still hanging loose around their neck, Rayne padded off in search of that solitude.

The theater was quiet when they slipped inside, its cavernous dark still carrying the faint smell of dust and wood polish. Rows upon rows of empty seats stretched out before them, shadows pooling in the corners. Rayne made for the farthest one in the back, where the world felt smaller, safer.

They slid into the seat, balancing the journal across their lap. The worn spine cracked gently as they opened it, pages catching the dim light. Pen in hand, they hesitated for a beat, letting the noise of the day fade into memory.

Then, the familiar ritual began.

Dear Rowan,

I had a very interesting day. It started fine and then turned into an absolute shit show. There was a mudhole and many near-death experiences. You’re probably used to my shenanigans by now, but this one was a complete accident! I ended up having to take charge, which is a little weird. I was more shocked that they listened to me.

Guess that saying was true—if you say it with enough confidence, even an awful lie can sound truthful. Honestly, I don’t know if I looked like I knew what I was doing or if everyone else was just too panicked to argue. Probably both. Either way, it worked. Barely.

Eyesore and Bright Eyes got thrown into a mudhole. Cowgirl pulled a How to Train Your Dragon stunt on a dinosaur. It was pretty incredible. I knew she would be fine; she obviously had experience with animals.

I’m writing this all down because, honestly, I don’t want to forget what it felt like—the panic, the chaos, the way my brain somehow pieced a plan together before I could freak out like everyone else. But also because I’m scared. I don’t want to admit it to them, but I was shaking the whole time. My hands are still sore from tying knots so fast. My chest still feels tight like I never fully caught my breath. If I hadn’t thought of the vines,, if Cowgirl hadn’t tamed the dinosaur… well. Let’s just say we’d be writing a much shorter entry tonight.

And now, when the adrenaline’s worn off, my foot feels like it’s on fire. Pretty sure I reopened those wounds. Had to re-dress it again, and all I can do is hope it doesn’t get infected. Wouldn’t that just be the cherry on top of this disaster sundae.

I’m going to try and call Esmarie and Aunt Jazz/Marisol tomorrow. I don’t know if I’ll actually get through to Esmaire, but the thought of hearing their voices—of hearing Elijah in the background, even if it’s just him yelling about cats—would make this feel a little less impossible. I don’t know if I’ll tell them the whole truth about today. Probably not. But still… I just want to hear them.

From,

R.E.D