“Yes, I’m older than I look.”
“How much older?” he asks, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, eyes shining.
I hesitate. I shouldn’t tell him. There are thresholds of information that, once crossed, can’t be uncrossed. Age is a big one.
“Old enough to remember when this valley had no roads,” I say. “Old enough to remember when the first surveyors came through, arguing about what to name things.”
His eyes widen. “That is… wow.”
I shrug, suddenly self-conscious. “Longevity has advantages. And drawbacks.”
He sobers a little at that, then brightens again.
“Do you know other cryptids?” he asks.
My internal alarms immediately start firing. I shouldn’t have mentioned that word. I didn’t mean to. It slipped out, one careless label in a long conversation a couple of days ago.
He sees my hesitation and backs off a little, raising one hand. “Sorry,” he says. “If that’s too much, you don’t have to answer.”
I should deflect.
I should say no.
Instead, I hear myself say, “Yes. I know others.”
His eyes light up like a kid at a fireworks show. “Like who?” he breathes.
I press my lips together, but the damage is done. The wall has a crack, and curiosity is very small and very persistent.
“There’s a thunderbird who runs a very large event every summer,” I say carefully. “You would like him. He’s loud and dramatic and very good at making a spectacle out of everything.”
Elias laughs. “That sounds like someone who runs a festival, yes.”
“And there are… others,” I say. “Rex and Calder. They would never let me live it down if they knew how much I’ve told you.”
“Rex and Calder?” he repeats, pouncing on the names. “What are they?”
“That,” I say, inwardly cursing myself, “is classified.”
He makes an affronted noise. “You can’t just drop names like that and not elaborate.”
“I can, actually. I’m very good at it.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “You’re enjoying this.”
“A little,” I admit.
The truth is, I’m talking more freely than I have with any human—or cryptid—in… I can’t remember how long. Maybe ever. Elias’s interest doesn’t feel like greed. It feels like awe wrapped in respect and layered with genuine care. He’s not cataloging me to dissect me. He’s trying to understand a world he suspects exists just beyond the edges of his current one.
Still, I’m oversharing. I know it. If the Yeti hears about this, I’ll never be allowed to forget it. If Akai finds out, he’ll tease me until the sun burns out.
So I pivot.
“You’ve asked many questions about me,” I say. “My turn.”
He blinks. “Oh. Right. That’s fair.”
I take a bite of potato, savor it, then fix him with a look.
