2. Wren
WREN
CROCS, DAMN CROCS, AND STATISTICS
The kitchen smells like high-grade Arabica and low-grade desperation. It’s six in the morning, and the air is thick enough to chew. Outside, the Cascades are just a jagged silhouette against a bruised purple sky, but in here, the fluorescent lights hum with a clinical, unforgiving persistence.
Marge Halloran is currently wielding a cast-iron skillet.
She doesn’t look up when I slide onto the stool at the prep island, completely focused on the sizzling bacon.
The apron she’s wearing once had sunflowers on it, now it mostly has the ghosts of a thousand Sunday brunches.
Marge has been the heart of this kitchen since before I was born, and the woman treats recipes like suggestions and my personal life like a public works project in need of immediate intervention.
“You look like you slept on a heap of gravel, Wren,” she says in lieu of a greeting. As always, she delivers her observation with the flat, heavy weight of an indictment. “I saw the office lights on at midnight. Again.”
“The hotline doesn’t sleep, Marge. Apparently, neither do people who believe they’ve seen a nine-foot primate in the middle of a suburb.
” My hand trembles as I pick up the coffee pot, some of the liquid sloshing over the rim of my mug as I fill it.
Swearing under my breath, I mop it up with a paper towel.
“Marketing is a twenty-four-hour cycle. If I don’t respond to the glowing-red-eyes crowd within thirty minutes, they take their engagement to the Flat Earth forums.”
Marge flips a strip of bacon, her lips pursed in disapproval. “Engagement doesn’t put meat on the bones. Walt says the gravel in the south lot is shifting. The drainage is shot. He spent two hours yesterday trying to patch that hole by Cabin Four before the birdwatchers fell in.”
I wrap my hands around the chipped mug, the one my dad favored, letting the heat seep into my palms. The lodge is a collection of things that are slowly falling apart, held together by Marge’s cooking and Walt’s stubborn refusal to admit that wood eventually succumbs to rot.
“Walt’s a saint,” I say, taking a sip that scalds my tongue. “Tell him I’ll get a load of crushed rock as soon as the check from the outdoor gear sponsorship clears. They want a ‘Bigfoot-approved’ footwear segment.”
Marge snorts, and somehow the sound manages to convey both fondness and a deep skepticism.
She turns away from the stove to lean against the counter, wiping her hands on her apron.
Her eyes narrow as she scans my face, and I know something’s coming.
Marge doesn’t do subtext. She does reality, usually served at a high velocity.
“We need to talk about the numbers, Wren. Not the hotline numbers. The real ones.” She reaches into her apron pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper.
It’s the yellow carbon copy of a supply invoice.
“The dry goods delivery came yesterday. I had to tell them to put it on the tab again. Ben over at the warehouse was nice about it, but he’s got a boss who doesn’t care about forest legends. ”
I set the mug down. The porcelain makes a dull thud on the butcher block. “How much?”
“Fourteen hundred. And that’s before we talk about the heating bill for the common room.
The fireplace only does so much, so we’ve been supplementing with the electric heating.
Guests expect heat, even the ones who come here looking for a monster that lives in a cave.
” She doesn’t raise her voice, which makes it worse.
“Walt and I don’t need much, you know that.
But the lodge is hungry. It’s always been hungry. ”
I pull my phone from my pocket and open the app for the hotline.
The red notifications are still there, a digital pulse of potential revenue.
“I booked three more for this weekend. Thermal camera guys. They’re paying the premium rate for the High-Frequency package.
That covers the dry goods and half the insurance. ”
Marge watches me, her expression softening into something that looks suspiciously like pity. “Your father would have hated this, you know. Turning his woods into a sideshow.”
“My father didn’t have to deal with a six-figure debt and a roof that thinks it’s a sieve,” I snap. The words come out sharper than I intended. “I’m not turning it into a sideshow. I’m reviving the business. There’s a difference.”
Marge doesn’t flinch, just reaches over and taps the screen of my phone. “Is there? You’re selling a myth, Wren. Eventually, people stop paying for myths if they never catch a glimpse of them.”
She’s right, of course. That’s the problem with Marge.
She has a way of stripping away the marketing layers until all that’s left is the cold, hard truth of a failing bank account.
I swipe away a notification from a guy who thinks he found a “Sasquatch nest” in his backyard in Ohio.
I don’t have the heart to tell him it’s probably just a flattened patch of tall grass.
“Look at this one,” I say, pivoting the conversation toward the safer ground of the hoax. I pull up a photo sent in at three that morning. It’s a blurry, low-light shot of something dark and hairy leaning against a tree. “Scale of one to ten. Believability?”
Marge leans in, squinting at the screen. “That’s a black bear with a skin condition, Wren. Or a very large man in a shag carpet. Look at the shoulder line. Too narrow.”
“I gave it a four,” I say. “I told the sender it was ‘compelling’ but required further environmental context. I’m hoping he’ll buy a trail map and a Hide & Seek World Champion shirt when he checks in next Tuesday.”
Marge shakes her head, but I catch the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. This is our ritual. I curate the nonsense, and she provides the reality. It’s the only way we keep from drowning in the sheer absurdity of our daily lives.
“Speaking of sightings,” Marge says, moving back to the stove. She starts cracking eggs into a bowl with a rhythmic, one-handed snap. “Walt saw him again yesterday. Near the north tree line. Just standing there, watching the survey crew near the old trailhead.”
I freeze, my mug halfway to my mouth. “Walt saw who?”
“The guy. The one the locals call the guardian or just ‘that hermit.’ Tall. Rarely speaks. Helps out around here sometimes but never stays long enough for me to start a conversation.” She whisks the eggs with a vigorous clatter.
“Walt says the man was already around when he started working for your grandfather, but that he hasn’t aged a day.
Just one of those fixtures of the forest. Like a particularly stubborn cedar. ”
“Marge, that’s exactly the kind of local color I need for the blog,” I say, reaching for my pen. “Does he have a name? Does he wear flannel? Does he look like he could be mistaken for a large bipedal ape from three hundred yards away?”
“You’ll leave that man alone, Wren,” Marge says, her tone shifting into something uncharacteristically serious.
“He’s not a bit for your website. He’s part of the woods.
My grandmother used to say the Cassidys had an arrangement with the mountain.
You’d do well to remember that some things are meant to stay in the shadows. ”
I roll my eyes. “Arrangements with mountains don’t pay the property taxes. If there’s a hermit living in the forest, he’s a liability to the brand if he starts scaring off the paying guests.”
“He doesn’t scare them,” Marge says quietly. “He just... ensures they don’t get lost. He found a hiker two years ago, back when the storm took out the cell towers. Brought him right to the porch of the guide cabin. SAR team knows him, too, but he mostly keeps to himself.”
I make a mental note: The Silent Savior of the Cascades. It’s a bit too flowery, but I can work with it. Maybe I can frame it as if the Sasquatch has a human familiar. The fans will eat it up. I can already see the comment threads blooming with theories about inter-species communication.
My phone buzzes on the counter. A new hotline call. I pick it up, sliding the screen to answer. This is the part of the job I actually enjoy—the sheer, unadulterated weirdness of the human imagination.
“Bigfoot Hotline, this is Wren. Please state the nature of your encounter.”
There’s a long silence on the other end. Then, a voice that sounds like it’s been filtered through a mouthful of marbles says, “He took ’em. He just... he just took ’em right off the porch.”
I glance at Marge. She’s watching me, one eyebrow arched.
“Who took what, sir?”
“The big guy! I’m staying in Cabin Six. I left my Crocs out to dry after that creek hike. You know, the lime-green ones? High-visibility? I went inside to grab a beer, came back out, and they were gone. Just... gone.”
I press the phone to my ear, trying to keep my voice professional. “And you believe a Sasquatch stole your lime-green Crocs?”
“Well, I saw the footprint! It was huge! Size thirteen at least. Not sure my Crocs will fit him. And he’s got style, apparently. You gotta do something, lady. Those were the limited edition ones. With the little taco charms in the holes!”
Marge lets out a bark of laughter from across the kitchen. She’s leaning over the counter now, her face flushed with amusement.
“Sir,” I say, my voice steady despite the twitch in my cheek. “I’ll add your report to our database. We have noticed a pattern of... item displacement... in the north sector. It’s possible the creature was attracted to the scent of the rubber. Or perhaps the tacos.”
“The tacos! I knew it! Nobody can resist the tacos!” The caller sounds triumphant. “You tell people. You tell ’em he’s out there, and he’s fashionable!”
I hang up and choke on my laughter. “Crocs. He thinks Bigfoot stole his Crocs.”
“Maybe he’s just tired of going barefoot,” Marge says, sliding a plate of eggs and bacon in front of me. “It’s a long walk across the ridge. A little arch support goes a long way.”
I pick up my fork, but the humor of the moment is already starting to evaporate.
The kitchen is quiet now, save for the low drone of the refrigerator and the distant sound of a truck on the access road.
The reality of the lodge is always waiting just outside the door, a heavy, looming presence that doesn’t care about lime-green footwear or viral transcripts.
“Cell reception is getting worse, by the way,” Marge says, her voice dropping back into her pragmatic register.
“Walt tried to call from the trailhead signage yesterday. Nothing but static. If someone has a real problem out there, they’re going to have to walk all the way in. Just like the old days.”
I nod, chewing slowly. “I checked the signal maps. The valley is a dead zone. That’s why we’re the only number on the signs. We’re the emergency line by default, whether we like it or not.”
“People call the lodge for everything now,” Marge says. “Walt got a call on the landline last night from someone with a flat tire on the access road. They didn’t call AAA. They called us because we’re the only ones who ever answer.”
I sigh. “I’ll add it to the list of non-Bigfoot-related duties. Somewhere between fixing the septic tank and faking a legend.”
I look at the yellow invoice sitting on the butcher block.
The four-figure number is circled in red.
It’s a small number in the grand scheme of things, but it feels huge.
It’s the cost of keeping Marge in her sunflowers and Walt in his gravel lot.
It’s the cost of a legacy that I never asked for but can’t quite bring myself to let go of.
I finish my eggs in silence. The sun is finally starting to clear the peaks, casting long, sharp shadows across the kitchen floor.
The day is starting, the hotline already pinging with messages.
More sightings of red eyes. More people looking for something in the woods that doesn’t want to be found.
“Don’t forget to check the guide cabin later,” Marge says as I stand up to leave. “Walt says the lock is sticking. And Wren?”
I stop at the door, my hand on the frame. “Yeah?”
“Watch yourself near the tree line. The woods have a way of pushing back when you poke them too hard.” Her voice holds the weight of things that have been here a lot longer than I have.
As I walk out of the kitchen and toward the lobby, I think about the guy Walt saw.
It’s just local color, a seed for a future blog post. But when I look out the window at the wall of green, I can’t help but feel the prickle of something on the back of my neck.
It’s not fear, exactly. More that feeling of being watched.
I sit down at the desk and open the laptop. The red notifications are waiting. I have a brand to manage, a legend to feed. And, apparently, I have a thief in lime-green Crocs to track down. It’s not the life I imagined when I was studying the iconography of the Renaissance, but it’s the one I have.
I pull up the latest message. It’s a screenshot from a Facebook group called Cascades Cryptid Seekers. The top comment has three hundred likes: The Cassidy Lodge is the heart of the mystery. They know more than they’re telling.
I let out a dry laugh. If only they knew. We don’t know anything at all. We’re just the ones who answer the phone.
My gaze catches on my father’s boots beside the door.
They’re a size twelve. The caller said the Crocs-thief was at least a size thirteen.
It’s a stupid, irrelevant detail, but I find myself thinking about it anyway.
A man too big for the world, living in the shadows of the trees.
A ghost that doesn’t want to be a brand.
Shaking my head, I scoot closer to the keyboard. I have work to do. The lodge is hungry, and the only thing I know for sure is that the statistics of belief are never on my side. I type the first line of the morning update: Reports of item displacement continue to rise in the north sector...
Outside, the wind picks up, rattling the windows of the lobby in the cracked frames. The rot is winning, but for today, the lights are still on. And for now, that has to be enough.