10. Wren
WREN
CONGRATULATIONS, YOU’RE IN THE BIGFOOT BUSINESS NOW
I stand on the porch, arms crossed against the chill, watching the rain pelt the gravel.
My brain is doing something I usually reserve for tax season: rapid-fire, cold-blooded triage.
Most people would still be back there on the ridge, screaming or fainting or questioning the chemical composition of reality.
I don’t have that kind of time. The bank doesn’t accept “my neighbor is a bark-skinned forest spirit” as a valid reason for a late mortgage payment.
Bigfoot is real. Well, a version of Bigfoot, and he’s nine feet tall when he’s annoyed.
Rowan is a Guardian, whatever that actually entails beyond looking like a Renaissance sculpture carved out of a hemlock tree.
These are the new variables. I slot them into the mental spreadsheet I keep for the lodge, right between unpaid utility bill and potential lawsuit from the Crocs guy.
The logic is simple, even if the facts are impossible.
I can’t stop the hotline without the lodge going under.
Rowan can’t stop the tourists by scaring them, because a scared millennial with a ring light is a millennial making a viral TikTok about a jump-scare.
If he chases them, more will come. If I market him, more will come.
It’s a closed loop of mounting disaster, and we’re both stuck inside it.
I keep my eyes on the tree line. He’ll be here. A man who can move through a forest without snapping a twig isn’t going to let a little rain stop a conversation he’s been dying to have.
He emerges from the shadows near the gear shed, still wearing that ridiculous HIDE he probably doesn’t do handshakes.
Rowan looks at my hand, then takes it, his fingers wrapping around mine.
His rough, calloused palm is startlingly warm.
The contact sends a jolt through me that has nothing to do with the storm.
It’s the feeling of a deal being struck and knowing you can’t walk away from it without losing a piece of yourself.
“Congratulations, Rowan,” I mutter, my voice slightly strained as I pull my hand back. “You’re in the Bigfoot business now. Try not to eat the shareholders.”
“I don’t eat people, Wren,” he says, his voice dropping an octave as he turns to leave. “They’re far too stringy. I’ll see you at dawn on the trailhead so we can decide what to do with the cameras. Don’t be late. I have work to do, even if you only have stories to tell.”
He vanishes into the curtain of rain before I can think of a comeback.
I stand on the porch for a long time, watching the spot where he disappeared, my hand still tingling from the pressure of his grip.
The lodge is saved, or at least it has a fighting chance.
But as I open the door, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve just invited the forest inside, and I have no idea how to make it leave.
I walk into the lobby, the bells above jangling with a cheerfulness that feels entirely unearned.
The room is empty, save for the low hum of the vending machine and the flickering glow of the desktop computer behind the front desk.
Marge and Walt are likely tucked into their cabin on the edge of the property, blissfully unaware that the local color I’ve been peddling just tried to negotiate a ceasefire.
I leave muddy, crescent-shaped prints on the floorboards my grandfather sanded by hand, and for the first time, I don’t feel the immediate urge to grab a mop. There are bigger things to clean up.
I drop into the swivel chair behind the desk, the springs groaning in protest. On the monitor, the Bigfoot Hotline dashboard is a sea of activity.
There are forty-two voicemails and a dozen emails with attachments titled things like BLURRY_FOOT_01.
jpg and is_this_a_nest.mp4. Usually, this sight gives me a hit of pure adrenaline because it’s the sight of the bank account slowly filling.
Not tonight, though. I’m looking at forty-two people who want to catch a glimpse of the man I just shook hands with.
Forty-two people who are, inadvertently, his enemies. And I’m the one who gave them the map.
I pull a yellow legal pad toward me, the edges curled from the humidity.
I need to map this out. Pragmatism is the only thing that’s ever kept me from spiraling, and right now, I need a grid.
On the left side, I write THE HOAX. On the right, THE GUARDIAN.
In the middle, I draw a jagged line that looks suspiciously like the mountain range I’m currently failing to manage.
The math is impossible. If I shut down the hotline, the viral interest dies.
If the interest dies, the revenue drops.
If the revenue drops, the lodge is sold to the first developer with a checkbook and a dream of building a luxury glamping retreat with zero respect for the local ecosystem.
Rowan would lose his home either way. But if I keep it running, I’m essentially pointing a neon sign at his front door.
I have to find the sweet spot, that perfect level of frustrating, tantalizing failure that keeps people coming back without ever letting them get close enough to see the bark on his skin.
I start scribbling.
Fake sightings: South Ridge (creek bed).
False leads: North trail closure (state ‘aggressive bear activity’).
Merch: Bigfoot-proof bear canisters?
I stop, my pen hovering over the paper. The we-talk-first rule. It’s a simple boundary, but it’s the most complex thing I’ve ever agreed to. It means I’m no longer the sole director of this play. I have an associate producer who is ancient and capable of snapping me like a dry twig.
I lean back, staring at the ceiling. Why did he agree?
He could have just disappeared deeper into the timber.
He could have made it so I never saw him again, used that sliding-perception magic he mentioned to become a literal ghost. But he stood there in the rain and took my hand.
He’s choosing to stay, which means he’s just as desperate as I am.
Or maybe he’s just as tired of being a secret as I am of being a failure.