Page 52 of Orc Me, Maybe
“She tells me when she goes somewhere.” My voice is hard now. “Every time.”
Groth is already striding to the door. “I’ll check the perimeter.”
I nod. “Get the tower crew. East and west loops. Stagger the rotations. Don’t wait on eyes—move.”
Chairs screech. Staff scatter. Julie's already grabbing a radio from the wall.
“I’ll organize teams. We’ll start with a four-quadrant grid. If she portaled, the residual trail should still be active for at least forty minutes.”
We comb the west trails first, Groth taking the north. Julie’s alongside me, sharp-eyed and pacing every step with quiet desperation.
“She wouldn’t go far without telling you,” Julie murmurs. “But if she thought someone or something needed help?—”
“She’s got a rescue instinct,” I mutter.
Julie nods. “Like someone else I know.”
I grunt, not ready for anything close to endearment.
The woods stretch on, thick with summer’s humidity and the scent of pine resin and old magic. Everything buzzes.
An hour passes. Then two.
I scream her name until my voice is shredded bark. Julie radios out directions, reroutes volunteers, casts three different detection circles, and still manages to keep me from coming apart completely. Then Groth’s call crackles through:
“Found something. North ridge. Near the willow grove.” We run. Boots hammer through the earth. My pulse is a drumbeat of regret.
If she’s hurt—if something happened—I’ll never forgive myself.
Groth’s waiting with her jacket. It’s still warm. Julie spots feathers nearby. Owl feathers.
“The baby owl,” she says. “It was limping in the barn earlier. I told her it’d be fine.”
“She tried to help it,” I whisper. We cut through the grove.
And there, finally.
She’s curled under the weeping willow, holding a limp owlet and whispering soft apologies.
“Daddy!” she cries, leaping into my arms. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I thought I could help?—”
I clutch her so tightly I feel her ribs move. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”
Julie crouches beside us, checking the owl. “Just dazed. You did the right thing, Lillian—but next time, bring someone.”
Lillian sniffs. “You were busy. You’re always busy”
“I’ll never be too busy again,” I promise.
Julie touches my arm. Soft, steady.
“You need to mean it this time,” she says.
And that’s what breaks me.
CHAPTER 22
JULIE
