Page 8 of The Girl Who Cried Bigfoot

I stand there for a long time, the sun hot on my neck, watching the spot where he vanished. The parking lot is still a circus with Barnaby shouting about a thermal spike near the dumpsters, and Walt trying to negotiate the turning radius of a vehicle designed for a war zone. The world is loud and chaotic. And through the chaos, I see the profits.

I pull the hotline phone out of my pocket when it vibrates. Someone has sent a blurry photo of a large, bipedal figure near the northern ridge—probably the grump himself, caught in some tourist’s lens. I should be thrilled about the engagement, since it’s the fuel that keeps the fire burning.

I stare out at the forest. The trees are a deep, impenetrable green, standing in silent defiance of the ring lights and the EMF meters. For the first time since I launched the hotline, the victory feels hollow. The money is real, the survival is real, but the air feels thin, as if I’ve sucked all the oxygen out of the valley to feed the flame. I tuck the phone back into my pocket, the cold thread of unease tightening into a knot. I’m saving the lodge, one ridiculous guest at a time. But as I head back inside to deal with the man who wants a refund because the “energy” in his room is too purple, I can’t shake the feeling that the grump was right. Some doors don’t have locks, and I think I just kicked mine wide open.

5

ROWAN

IN DEFENSE OF HIDE & SEEK WORLD CHAMPION

The Cassidy Lodge gift shop carries the scent of cedar shavings and cedar-scented air freshener, an olfactory redundancy that makes my nose itch. The small, cramped room is paneled in wood that is far too orange to be natural. I stand in the corner, trying to make my seven-foot-two-inch frame occupy as little space as possible, which is a futile exercise. A display of plastic walking sticks rattles as I shift my weight.

I’m here on what I’ve told myself is a tactical assessment. If Wren Cassidy is going to sell my existence to the highest bidder, I should at least know the retail price. I touch a T-shirt hanging on a circular rack. The fabric is thin, which will likely pill after a single wash, and the image printed on it is a personal grievance in ink. It features a hunched, shaggy creature with an elongated forehead and arms that reach its ankles, clutching a neon-pink surfboard.

I’ve lived in this forest for three centuries, and I have never seen a surfboard. I’ve certainly never had the urge to carry one. The creature on the shirt looks less like a Guardian and more like a bear that had a very unfortunate encounter with a high-voltage wire. I move to the next rack. Here, I find a row of trucker hats with I Believe embroidered in shaky, neon-green.

I do not believe. I am.

There’s a distinction between faith and biology that the marketing department of this lodge has failed to grasp.

“Can I help you find something specific, or are you just admiring the local art?”

I don’t need to turn around to know it’s her. Wren’s voice has a particular frequency that’s sharp enough to cut through the hum of the gift shop’s refrigerator but cushioned by a persistent, weary dryness. I keep my back to her, focusing on a display of Bigfoot Droppings which are, upon closer inspection, chocolate-covered almonds.

“The anatomy is incorrect,” I say, finally turning.

Wren is leaning against the doorframe, her arms crossed. She’s wearing a sweater the color of a bruised plum and her father’s old hiking boots, which are at least three sizes too large for her. She looks small in the doorway, but she occupies the space with a stubbornness that reminds me of the mountain laurel—hard to kill and prone to growing where it’s not wanted.

“The anatomy of the chocolate?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

“The shirts.” I gesture at the surfboard-toting monstrosity. “The sagittal crest is far too pronounced. And the gait. No creature with that center of gravity would lead with its head. It would overbalance and fall on its face.”

Wren walks into the room, her boots clumping on the floorboards. She stops a few feet away, close enough that I can smell the damp wool of her sweater and the faint, citrus scent of her shampoo. It’s an efficient smell. It doesn’t linger or plead for attention.

“It’s a caricature, Mr….?” she says, looking at me expectantly.

I narrow my eyes. She doesn’t know who I am. How can she not know who I am? “Rowan Warden,” I say, studying her face for a spark of recognition at the name. After all, her great-great-grandmother named me.

“Well, Rowan Warden, people don’t buy shirts for anatomical accuracy. They buy them because they want a souvenir of the time they stood in a forest and didn’t see anything.”

“They’re buying a lie,” I grumble.

“They’re paying to keep my lights on.” She straightens a row of mugs that feature a silhouette of a footprint. “Besides, if I sold shirts that were accurate, nobody would buy them. A seven-foot-tall man in flannel who spends his time complaining about drones isn’t exactly the mystery they’re looking for.”

I look down at her. The part in her hair is a clean, straight line, and I can’t help but wonder if she uses a ruler every morning when she brushes her hair. Wren is a woman of systems and ledgers, trying to categorize a world that refuses to be neat. It’s a doomed project, yet she approaches it with a grim determination that I find troublesome.

“I’m not complaining about drones,” I say. “I’ve merely brought up my observations that they are an ecological nuisance.”

“Right. Observations. With a side of glowering.” She moves past me to restock a shelf of postcards. Her shoulder brushes my arm. It’s a brief, accidental contact that shouldn’t feel like a physical jolt, but it does. My skin prickles beneath my shirt, suddenly hyper-aware of the heat coming off her. It’s a purely biological response. I am a Guardian, attuned to the movements in my territory. Wren is simply a deafening movement.

I move deeper into the corner of the shop, perusing the rest of the merchandise. That’s when I see it. It’s tucked behind a stack of Sasquatch Squad hoodies. A simple navy-blue T-shirt with white lettering across the chest. No surfboard. No neon colors. Just four words: HIDE & SEEK WORLD CHAMPION.

There’s a strange, twitching sensation in my chest that I eventually recognize as a desire to smile. It’s a rare feeling. But the statement on the shirt is technically accurate. I’ve been winning this particular game for three hundred years. The humans have brought cameras, satellites, and infrared sensors, and I have remained a shadow.

I hook the hanger with a finger. The soft fabric is a far better quality than the others.

“You like that one?” Wren asks. She’s watching me now, her head tilted to the side. The dryness is still in her voice, but there’s something else there too—a flicker of curiosity that wasn’t there before.