The Fox in My Basement

I found the fox behind the dumpster behind school, its leg caught in some fencing. It was shaking, those amber eyes wide with terror. My friends were waiting by the front gates—Jasmine texting someone, Chloe complaining about her hair—but I ducked down my hoodie and grabbed the fox anyway.

"What are you doing?" Chloe asked when I finally caught up with them, leaves in my hair and what was definitely mud on my jeans. "You look like you rolled around in the woods."

"Just had to handle something," I said, which wasn't even a lie.

My friends didn't know about the fox currently sleeping in a blanket in my basement, injured leg bandaged with supplies I'd stolen from my mom's first aid kit. They also didn't know that I'd stopped finding their conversations about Starbucks runs and which boys were "literally so hot" totally exhausting.

The goldfish—named Goldie, because I was twelve when I won it at a carnival and had zero imagination—watched from its bowl as I fed the fox pieces of cooked chicken from dinner. The fox looked at me like it knew everything I wasn't saying. Like it knew I'd been drifting away from my friends since freshman year started.

"You're a better listener than them," I told the fox. It blinked slowly, which I decided meant "same."

My parents found out three days later when the fox started howling at 3 AM. That was awkward. But the wildlife rehab center took it in, and they said I could visit.

The next day at school, Jasmine and Chloe were ignoring me again, busy whispering about something. I didn't even care. I had a new friend who couldn't speak English but understood me better than anyone, and I'd learned that sometimes the best friendships aren't the ones you're supposed to have.

Also, the fox's name was Finn now, because he looked like a Finn.

My old friends thought I was weird. Finn thought I was a hero. I was going with Finn's opinion.