Fox Fire in July

My summer plan was solid: avoid everyone, stay in my room, and pretend freshman year never happened. But then Leo's new dog—a chaotic golden retriever named Chaos—chased a real fox into our backyard, and everything changed.

The fox was sleek, rust-colored, visibly nervous, crouched beneath the porch. For some stupid reason, I felt seen. That fox, trapped in someone else's territory, desperate to bolt but staying perfectly still.

Then Sage appeared at the fence. The new girl from down the street, holding a bowl of water, calm as if nervous backyard wildlife was normal. "He's beautiful," she whispered, meeting my eyes.

My brain short-circuited. Sage was beautiful too, all dark curls and sharp edges, wearing a vintage band tee that smelled like incense and secrets. Within an hour, we were sitting on my back porch, Chaos passed out at her feet, while she told me about the abandoned sphinx statue behind the old library downtown.

"It's covered in moss," she said, shrugging. "But you can still see its face. It looks like it's waiting for something."

I didn't care about a statue. I cared about the way she said my name. How she asked if I wanted to see it, like it was obvious I'd say yes. How, for the first time all summer, I didn't feel like hiding.

The fox slipped away while we were talking. Sage squeezed my hand. "Lucky fox," she said. "Running free."

But I didn't want to run anymore. I wanted to stay right there, letting Sage explain why ancient Egyptian riddles were actually pretty gay, and how maybe we could investigate them together tomorrow, and the day after that, and—

Chaos woke up, barking at nothing. Sage laughed, and I felt something click into place, bright and terrifying and real.

"Tomorrow," I promised. And meant it.