Fox Crossing

The pool deck was slick with humidity and my own sweat. Three weeks into summer and I was still the only one at Oakwood who hadn't been invited to Kyle's party. Even Marcus, who once ate a live worm on a dare in seventh grade, was going.

"You coming?" asked Riley, my neighbor since forever, dangling the invitation like bait.

I'd rather die. "Can't. My mom's making me study for the PSAT. Again."

"Your mom lets you watch, like, eight hours of cable news every night. Pretty sure she's not the PSAT police."

She wasn't wrong.

That night I sat on the back porch with Barnaby, our elderly tabby cat who slept seventeen hours a day and judged me the remaining seven. The pool lights rippled across the water, turning everything blue and ghostly. I wasn't even allowed to swim after dark—another one of Mom's rules that existed solely to make me feel like a baby.

Then I saw it.

A fox, standing at the edge of the pool like it owned the place. Its coat burned copper in the underwater lights. It tilted its head, watching me with these ancient, knowing eyes that made me feel ridiculous for worrying about some stupid party.

"Hey," I whispered, because what else do you say to a fox?

Barnaby lifted his head, let out this rusty meow, and—no joke—winked at me. The fox dipped its front paw into the pool, sending ripples toward me like a message, then dissolved back into the shadows.

My phone buzzed. Riley: *Did you see that fox?? Everyone's posting about it*

I stared at the screen, then at the empty spot where the fox had been. Suddenly, Kyle's party seemed smaller. The fox had been here, in my backyard, and it hadn't needed an invitation.

I texted Riley back: *Saw it first*

Some exclusions you choose. Some choose you.