Page 81 of That’s My Orc, Tusk Off

“The wounded fillawig escaped his pen,” he said. “We’ve got to find him. Brovish is busy with Laina, and I can’t find Krem or Greth. I need your help.”

My first instinct was to say no. Everything hung in the space between now and noon. But the creature needed me.

We rushed outside.

The woods were dense and still, the morning light filtering through the canopy in broken shafts. As we followed the trail, our boots crunched over last year’s leaves, the sound too loud.

Drogar moved ahead of me, scanning the underbrush. I followed, but my mind was elsewhere.

She kissed me.

She left.

“You’re thinking about her,” Drogar said.

I didn’t answer.

“Traig.”

“I’m looking for the fillawig.”

“You’re not.” He stopped, turning to face me. “You’re thinking about Willa and what you’ll say to the scribe.”

He was right.

“There.” Drogar pointed ahead.

The split pine rose from the forest floor, its trunk divided by lightning years ago. The fillawig huddled at its base, favoring its injured leg, its gold fur matted with dirt.

Getting it back to its enclosure took longer than it should have, but I was distracted. My hands moved through the motions, approaching the creature slowly, keeping my voice calm, and offering my palm for it to sniff. But my thoughts kept circling back to the reception desk and the coffee I’d left there and whether she was sitting at it now or whether the mug was still full and cold.

Drogar didn’t push me to move faster, just took his turn carrying the wounded creature.

We reached the enclosure, and I opened the gate. He carried the fillawig inside and gently set him on his bed near the back. My hands shook when I repaired and secured the latch.

Drogar saw, but he didn’t comment.

“This will work out,” he said quietly.

“You don’t know that.”

“I have a good feeling.”

I wanted to believe him.

He glanced at the sky. “Nearly noon. I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would take this long.”

Damn.

I’d spent three years building this life, and I was going to lose it because I’d prioritized a wounded fillawig over documentation.

Exactly the way my parents said I would.

I ran around to the side entrance because it was closer, and I couldn’t afford to waste time.

Bursting through the door, my boots loud on the tile, I ran down the hallway. Sweat cooled on my back. My hair had come loose from its tie. Dirt streaked my shirt. I stopped outside my office, dragging both hands through my hair, tucking in my shirt, trying to look like I had my life in order.

I didn’t.