Thunderpaws and Truth Pills

The bull stood there, massive and unmoving, blocking the entire path to the creek where everyone from North High was hanging out. Leo's heart hammered against his ribs like it was trying to escape.

"You're seriously not gonna cross, are you?" Maya called from the other side, where the popular kids lounged on beach blankets like they owned summer. Her voice had that edge—half challenge, half something else Leo couldn't read.

His dog Luna knew better than Leo did. The old golden retriever, who'd survived getting hit by a car last year, sat down firmly and refused to budge. Animals could sense things humans couldn't. Luna was basically a vitamin for Leo's anxiety—her presence alone made everything feel less catastrophic.

"It's just a cow," said Jared, the varsity quarterback who'd been giving Leo looks all week. "Unless you're scared."

The air felt thick, heavy with summer and teenage posturing. Then—lightning cracked across the sky, so bright it left spots in Leo's vision. The bull's head snapped up, ears forward. Everyone went quiet.

"Storm's coming," Leo said, grabbing Luna's collar. "We should go."

"No duh, genius," Maya rolled her eyes, but she was already gathering her stuff. Then she looked at Leo, really looked at him. "You coming? There's room in my car."

The bull snorted and moved aside. Just like that.

Leo hesitated. This was it—the moment where he could play it cool and pretend he hadn't been about to turn around, or he could be honest about being terrified. About everything. The bull, the popularity game, Maya with her knowing smile.

"Yeah," Leo said. "Yeah, I'm coming."

Luna bounded ahead like she'd known all along it would work out. The first raindrop hit Leo's arm as Maya's car engine started, and he thought maybe that was the thing about growing up—sometimes you had to stand there shaking like a leaf before realizing everyone else was too.

"Your dog's weirdly smart," Maya said as Leo slid into the passenger seat.

"She's better than people," Leo said, and Maya laughed—really laughed—and the bull in the field was already just a story they'd tell later.