When the Fox Found Me

I was a zombie. Not the brain-eating kind from movies, but worse—fifteen years old and practically living inside my iPhone, thumb scrolling through highlight reels of everyone's perfect lives while mine felt like a blooper reel. My friends called it "doomscrolling." I called it Tuesday.

Then Leo transferred to Northwood High. Senior year, varsity jacket, messy dark hair that fell over eyes the color of autumn leaves. People whispered he'd gotten expelled from his last school for something legendary, but nobody knew the truth. Not that it mattered—in a school of 1,200, a mystery like Leo was basically catnip.

He caught me behind the gym during fifth period, crouched in the weeds, phone clutched in my hand like a lifeline. I'd fled a lunch table where someone'd made a comment about my oversized hoodie. Again.

"You're missing it," Leo said, crouching beside me. His voice had this rough quality, like rocks tumbling underwater.

"Missing what? Algebra?" I shot back, though my voice shook.

"No." He pointed toward the edge of school property, where a fox stood frozen, russet fur brilliant against dying grass, watching us with eyes like polished amber. "She comes here every Thursday. I've been watching her for weeks."

I almost made a joke—*you, the new kid, stalking foxes?*—but then the fox moved, liquid grace, and something in my chest cracked open. I lowered my phone. The screen went dark.

"Her name's Rusty," Leo said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. "She's teaching her kits to hunt. They're clumsy. It's kind of adorable." He glanced at me. "You okay? You look like you've been crying."

I hadn't even realized I had been.

"People suck," I muttered.

"Yeah." Leo shifted, sitting cross-legged in the grass. "But foxes don't. Foxes just want snacks and to not get eaten by coyotes. Simplify." He paused. "Also, you have really cool eyes. Like, storm cloud gray."

I stared at him. My phone buzzed in my hand—probably more notifications, more manufactured perfection I'd never measure up to. I turned it off.

The fox moved again, disappearing into the woods.

"She'll be back next Thursday," Leo said, standing up and brushing dirt off his jeans. He extended a hand. "I'm Leo, by the way. And you're...?"

"Maya." I took his hand. His palm was warm, calloused.

"Well, Maya." Leo grinned, and it transformed his whole face. "See you next Thursday? Bring snacks. Rusty loves turkey."