Fox Fire at Midnight

The summer before sophomore year, I spent every evening running laps at the community college track because Coach said if I wanted varsity, I'd need to shave seventeen seconds off my mile. That's how I found the fox.

I'd seen him three times now — a flash of rust-colored fur near the perimeter fence, gone before I could blink. Dad called him a nuisance, said foxes got into trash cans and carried diseases. But something about the way those amber eyes watched me made me feel less lonely, which was pathetic considering I had three hundred followers on Instagram and sat at the "popular" table at lunch.

Popular. What a joke. More like popularly tolerated.

"You coming to Jordan's pool party Friday?" Chloe asked between laps, her somehow-perfect-while-running ponytail swinging. "Everyone's going. It's, like, the last blowout before school starts."

"Probably," I lied. Jordan's parties always ended with someone crying in the bathroom and at least one person swimming fully clothed because peer pressure was apparently alive and well in 2024.

Our golden retriever, Buster, waited for me at home, tail thumping against the linoleum like a metronome set toMAXIMUM enthusiasm. Mom was in her office on yet another conference call, surrounded by empty coffee mugs like she was building a fortress. Dad was working late again.

Some days I felt like the stray cat that started showing up in our backyard — hungry, skittish, hovering at the edges of belonging but never quite crossing the threshold.

Friday arrived with my stomach in knots. I stood at Jordan's back gate, listening to laughter and water splashing, suddenly unable to make myself walk through. What was I even doing? These weren't my people. I'd just spent the whole summer running in circles alone while they'd been at the lake, at the mall, at each other's houses forming the kind of inside jokes that make everyone else feel like they're speaking a different language.

I turned around and walked home.

That's when I saw the fox again, sitting calmly on the sidewalk like he'd been waiting. He didn't run. Just watched me with those ancient, knowing eyes.

"Yeah," I whispered. "I get it."

Some creatures aren't meant to swim with the pack. Some are meant to run alone, under moonlight, wild and unapologetic.

I pulled out my phone and texted Chloe: "Not feeling well. Have fun." Then I deleted Instagram, laced up my running shoes, and followed the fox into the dark.