I scoffed. “And go where?”
“Anywhere.” Ellie tilted her head. “When was the last time you did something just for you?”
I opened my mouth, then closed it...and felt like a fish gasping for air.
Ellie’s smile turned knowing. “That’s what I thought.”
*
Later that night, Isat cross-legged on my bed, flipping through TV channels with the glazed focus of someone who'd eaten too much wedding cake.
I wasn’t tired. Or maybe I was—but not in a way sleep could fix. This was more like anexistential ennui seasoned with indigestion.
My thumb hovered over the remote when a grainy image of a tangled jungle filled the screen, all moss and mist and dramatic zooms. A deep, overly serious narrator intoned over spooky music that sounded like it came from a haunted house sound effects CD.
“The Chickcharney... a feathered cryptid lurking in the jungles of the Bahamas. A creature of legend, mischief, and possibly, very bad posture.”
The screen flashed to blurry footage—something vaguely owl-shaped darting between palm trees, followed by glowing red eyes peeking from the underbrush like a Halloween decoration.
I blinked. Sat up a little straighter. Was that... a bird? A muppet? A guy in a costume?
Then came the kicker:
“And now, for the first time, reclusive Bahamian billionaire and part-time coconut water tycoon, Rex Beaumont, is offering a hundred thousand dollars to anyone who can snap a clear photo of the Chickcharney.”
A graphic of a cartoonish bird holding a suitcase and wearing sunglasses popped onto the screen with the words:
“Catch the Chickcharney! Win Big!”
I stared. Then reached for my phone.
Ellie’s voice echoed in my head:“You need a real vacation.”
Was this real? A cryptid photo contest? Sponsored by a guy namedRex?
I pulled up a travel site, typed inFlights to the Bahamas, and hovered my thumb over the button. Rational Me raised an eyebrow from somewhere deep in my subconscious.
But Rational Me had also told me to date that guy who collected ventriloquist dummies. So, Rational Me could sit this one out.
I clickedBook Now.
For the first time in ages, I wasn’t planning, or overthinking, or doom-scrolling. I was just... going.
To find a mythical jungle chicken.
No regrets.
Yet.
*JON
By the time the ceiling fan above me completed its hundredth lazy spin, I’d come to two conclusions:
My iced coffee was now mostly just ice, and
I might be the co-founder of a very expensive scam.
I stirred what remained of my drink and tried not to look as sweaty and suspicious as I felt. The little beachside café smelled like grilled fish, sunscreen, and mild disappointment. The kind of place where donors were supposed to show up with wide smiles and checks in hand—not go mysteriously silent after rumors surfaced that the “sustainable farms” you’d been championing might be about as real as Bigfoot.
