I typed.
Me: I made way too many cupcakes. Want me to bring some over?
My thumb hovered above the send button as I considered the implications.
If I went over, I would have to stay, make conversation, answer questions. I’d have to explain work, money, my parents, and why I had disappeared again. Missy might look at me with that careful concern she’d developed, which always made me feel like I was being observed from every direction.
She might ask what was wrong.
I deleted the message and put my phone down.
By the time the sun began setting, the apartment had cooled, and the music had stopped. The light outside softened across the buildings, turning the windows opposite mine into muted rectangles of evening.
My phone began to vibrate.
I glanced at it but didn’t pick it up immediately. I assumed it was a client, my mother, or the married entrepreneur preparing to introduce himself with a photo taken beside a rented sports car.
The vibration stopped.
Then started again.
And again.
The phone rattled against the counter in repeated bursts. Messages arrived so quickly that the screen stayed lit, one notification replacing another before I could read the name.
I picked it up. It continued vibrating in my hand.
One message.
Four.
Nine.
Fifteen.
I stared at the screen.
Who the hell could that be?
HUDSON
THERE WAS NO KITE
By late afternoon, my day had become a long procession of problems that were technically minor, individually ridiculous, and incapable of being resolved without my involvement.
I had talked a ten-year-old out of testing homemade armor with a paintball gun, reset the breaker at Grandma Ruth’s house after she plugged six appliances into one outlet (using a very impressive extension cord setup), and confiscated three industrial magnets from Trevor, my seventeen-year-old cousin, before he could explain why they were essential to his latest business venture.
None of that qualified as an emergency, yet somehow, it had become my responsibility.
Then I found out about the tree.
I’d assumed the text was from the family group chat, but to my surprise, my eight-year-old brother, Caldwell, had texted a photograph with no explanation. That’s how I learned one of the littles had climbed approximately twenty feet into an oak tree and lost confidence halfway through the return trip.
The photo showed a pair of muddy sneakers on a branch, several leaves, and enough empty space between the shoes and the ground to make my stomach clench.
I called Caldwell immediately.
He answered but didn’t speak. That was normal, especially when he was anxious or surrounded by people. My stepmom, Julie, had shown him how to use his securely locked-down phone to call or text photos when he needed us, since littles were allowed to roam our property.
I could hear a child crying, and at least two adults offering contradictory advice.
“Are you with him?” I asked.
Caldwell tapped the phone twice, his usual yes. He’d become quite creative with his communication when selective mutism had stolen his voice.
“Is he hurt?”
One tap. No.
“Is Mom there?”
One tap again.
That gave me some relief. My mother was an excellent alpha, an experienced parent, and one of the most competent people I knew. Unfortunately, she also believed fear could often be defeated through direct confrontation, which was less effective when the frightened person was currently clinging to a tree branch.
“I’m on my way,” I said. “Tell him I’m coming.”
Caldwell tapped twice, then disconnected.
I was already crossing the gravel road between the small cluster of homes where most of our pack lived. Calling it a neighborhood made it sound more organized than it was. The homes had accumulated over generations rather than being planned, spreading along the base of the ridge wherever somebody’s grandparents had owned land and decided another house could fit.
The Blackwell property sat near the center. Grandma Ruth and Grandpa Alfonse lived next door to my mom, while a few other houses sat on the other side. Several Carpenter cousins lived farther uphill. The Kipners had settled closer to the main road, which Aunt Karen claimed was because her branch of the family understood accessibility and property value.
Everyone else claimed it was because Aunt Karen liked knowing who came and went.
Both explanations were probably true.
A small crowd had gathered behind one of the Carpenter houses. Six adults stood under the oak tree, all looking upward. Three littles watched from the porch. Caldwell stood slightly apart from the crowd with his phone clutched in his hands, his dark hair falling into his eyes.
He rushed toward me as soon as he saw me.
I held out my hand. He took it without hesitation, his fingers cold despite the warm afternoon. Caldwell shoved his phone into his back pocket and pointed.
Levi Carpenter sat on a branch high enough that none of the adults could reach him without climbing the tree themselves.
His knees were locked around the trunk, his face red from crying. At eleven, he was close to his first shift but not there yet. Most wolf shifters developed their wolves around puberty, once their bodies had changed enough to withstand it. Lately, however, first shifts had started happening earlier, following the same irritating pattern of precocious puberty seen among humans.
The council – a governing body of selected elders from trusted, neighboring packs who served as impartial judges, counselors, and emergency responders when local leadership hit its limits – had issued several reports about the trend among various packs. Naturally, the reports were choked with phrases such as evolving biological variables and required monitoring.
That meant parents spent years worrying that a frightened eight-year-old might suddenly become a frightened wolf in their math class before anyone could call in regional backup.
At the moment, though, Levi looked entirely human and deeply committed to never moving again.
My mother had caught wind of the situation and had beaten me to the tree. She stood below him with both hands on her hips. She wore old work boots, jeans, and a sleeveless shirt that revealed the muscle in her arms. Her gray-streaked hair had been cut close on the sides for most of my life, though the top was currently long enough to curl in the humidity.
“Hudson’s here,” she called up. “Will you come down now?”
Levi shook his head violently.
“I told him I’d catch him,” she said to me.
“It might be too terrifying for him,” I said. “You know, free-falling.”
“I’ll catch him. Everyone knows I will.”
Twenty feet above us, Levi made a distressed sound.
Mom lowered her tone so only I could hear her. “Fine. Handle it.”
There was no resentment in the order. She knew when to press and when to hand over a problem. It was one of the reasons she’d held the pack together for so many years.
A Carpenter uncle had already leaned an extension ladder against the trunk, but it ended several feet below Levi’s branch.
I squeezed Caldwell’s hand once before releasing it. “Can you stand near the ladder for me?”
He nodded.
After testing the ladder’s stability, I looked up. “Hey, Levi.”
His head lowered a fraction. “I can’t get down.”
“No, buddy. You definitely can’t from where you’re sitting.”
That earned me a wounded look, which was better than panic.
“We’re going to move you first. You don’t need to think about reaching the ground yet.”
His arms tightened around the tree. I climbed slowly because wolves could hear distress in breathing long before humans noticed it.
“Do you know why everyone’s standing under this tree?” I asked.
He sniffed. “Because I’m stuck.”
“Partly. Mostly it’s because they’re nosy.”
A few people below objected.
Levi looked down despite himself. “They are nosy.”
I shook my head, jokingly morose. “Terrible problem in this pack.”
“You came too,” Levi said. “Are you being nosy?”
I laughed. “I’m the worst of them.”
His grip loosened a little.
When I reached the top rung, I was still several feet below him. I hooked one arm around the trunk and studied the branch arrangement. “How did you get up there?”
He glanced toward the ground. “That one broke.”
Indeed, a cracked limb lay on the grass.
“Okay. So we’re not using your original route.”
He sniffed again and wiped his face against his sleeve.
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