Orange Hoodie Nights

My iPhone died at 11:47 PM, which was unfortunate because I was crouching behind the dumpster of Maplewood Apartments, holding a half-eaten turkey sandwich, waiting for the fox.

He'd appeared three nights ago—sleek copper coat, one ear torn from some backyard battle—and I'd been feeding him since. Because that's what you do when your parents are divorcing and your best group chat hasn't messaged you in forty-eight hours and you need something to show up for you.

The fox materialized like he always did, soundless, yellow eyes reflecting the parking lot lights. I whispered, "Hey, handsome," and he took the sandwich from my hand.

Then my cat, Mochi, who'd escaped through my bedroom window again, chose that exact moment to dart out from behind the dumpster.

Bad move.

The fox vanished. Mochi puffed up like a startled orange—okay, no, Mochi is gray, but the orange HOODIE I was wearing suddenly made me realize I looked like a traffic cone trying to be stealthy.

I scooped up Mochi, checked my dead iPhone, and started walking home. But then I saw it: the fox was back, watching from the edge of the woods. Not leaving. Just... waiting.

Something about the way he stood there, patient as anything, made me sit down on the curb. Mochi curled into my lap. We stayed there for twenty minutes, me and my cat and this wild creature who kept showing up.

My phone charged enough to turn on by morning. Three notifications from the group chat. Someone had finally noticed I was quiet.

The fox never came back after that night. But sometimes, when I'm wearing that orange hoodie and walking past the woods behind the apartments, I swear I see copper fur between the trees.

And I think about how you can't make wild things trust you. You just show up, consistently, quietly, and hope they decide you're worth the risk.