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Misty can’t help but take a bit of pride in the life they’ve managed to build out here. Not just in surviving the impossible, but in what came after—the strange, stubborn way they made something real . Their homes, cobbled together from sticks and scavenged wood, stand in neat little clusters beneath the budding trees. They’ve wrangled half-wild livestock into pens, learned to smoke meat, weave rope, gather herbs with intention. A proper community, in its own feral way. And for the first time in her life, Misty isn’t on the outside looking in.
She’s not exactly a leader— no one would say that —but sometimes they look to her for something. A remedy, a solution, a calm word when things get tense. And when they do, Misty soaks up that recognition like a cat in a patch of sun. Sure, she misses hot water and toothpaste, but out here, she is needed . She may not be strong or graceful or a hunter worth bragging about, but she can cure what ails, and usually with alarming accuracy. That kind of usefulness matters now more than ever.
Winter had been hard. They lost the cabin, lost what little structure they had, and the cold nearly broke them all. But Misty had kept Lottie alive, had nursed her through the worst of it, and in doing so helped preserve the threadbare morale of their group. She’d done that. And as if in return, the Wilderness had given her Natalie. Not in the way she used to fantasize about, back when things were still grounded in the real world—but something better, something true .
They had hunted Natalie. Chased her through the snow like wolves. And when the time came, the Wilderness had answered Misty’s whispered prayers and spared her . Of course, it had come at the cost of Javi. Which, Misty supposes, is terrible. But from that moment on, Natalie was changed—no longer just a girl surviving, but something more. Something revered.
Natalie had risen like a phoenix from the ashes of that night. From prey to queen, just like that. Misty watched the shift happen in real time, and it had left a mark. Now Natalie moved through their strange, reformed world with the ease of someone who had always been meant to rule. The others followed her without hesitation, obeyed her instincts like they were scripture. Misty, of course, was the most loyal. Not out of fear or pressure, but devotion. Pure and complete.
And now, the ice is gone. The forest has returned to life, all green shoots and warm breezes and birdsong. There’s laughter in the camp again, their remaining luggage being traded like currency, soft talk around the fire. The girls have settled into something almost like peace. Spring has returned, and with it, the fragile belief that they might actually make it.
Someone—maybe Akilah, maybe Mari, it doesn’t really matter—suggests a “day of giving.” A break from hunting and mending and pretending they’re not still broken in places the thaw can’t reach. The idea takes root fast. Just for today, they’ll make something for someone else. Not because they have to, not for survival—just because.
Misty nods along, trying to play it casual, but her stomach is already twisting itself into euphoric knots. This is her chance. Her moment. Natalie Scatorccio is going to get a gift so great that she’ll have to give Misty a chance. A real chance.
Not just a trinket. Not some half-assed throwaway. Misty’s going to make her something meaningful. Something that says I know you, I see you, I remember everything you’ve ever done that made me feel like more than invisible.
After morning chores, she slips away, claiming she’s headed toward the creek to look for birch bark. No one questions her—why would they? She’s Misty. She’s always doing something odd and vaguely uninteresting. She finds that it’s better this way. If they think she’s just a thoughtless freak, they don’t ask her too many questions.
Her real destination lies deeper in the woods, past a thicket of alder and a few moss-blanketed stones, to a hidden cache she’s been building since the first signs of snowmelt. It’s nothing more than a hollow beneath an old, twisted tree stump, carefully covered with bark, pine needles, and a scatter of leaves. But inside is a treasure trove—scraps of cloth, soft feathers, smooth stones, deer bones cleaned and sun-bleached to a soft ivory sheen. Each piece gathered with one person in mind.
Natalie.
Misty sits cross-legged in the grass, the warmth of spring sunlight spreading across her back, and lays out her collection like an offering. There’s a string of squirrel bones she’s strung into a sort of charm, delicate and eerie. A tiny felt dog, awkward but clearly handmade, sewn together with thread she pulled from her own blanket. And the centerpiece: a flat, palm-sized stone, smoothed by the river and painted with a trembling little drawing—two girls holding hands. It’s a careful rendition of what she’d once drawn on a probably discarded index card.
It’s clumsy. It’s weird. It’s painfully, unmistakably sincere.
She bundles it all into a pouch made from soft deer hide, tied shut with red thread and a single strand of her own hair, a secret woven in. Before closing it, she slips in a note written on birch bark, each letter bold and determined, carved out with care: You’re the best part of being stuck here.
Misty stares at the pouch for a long time, holding it tight against her chest as the forest hums around her. Bugs whine in the air, birds sing in the canopy, and the trees shiver with breeze and laughter. She smiles to herself—small, private, overwhelmed.
Tonight, when the fire crackles and the girls pass around their strange, heartfelt crafts—woven bracelets, painted rocks, riddles carved into bark—she’ll walk over to Natalie with hands that won’t stop trembling and offer her this. The best thing she’s ever made.
Maybe Natalie will smile like she did back on the bleachers, when everything was still pretending to be normal. Maybe she’ll snort and say, “This is fucking weird,” but tuck it into her jacket anyway.
And maybe—if Misty gets really lucky—she’ll feel it, too.
Misty tucks the pouch carefully into the folds of her jacket and flops back into the grass, staring up at the sky where the light breaks into soft gold through the budding branches. She clutches the jacket closed over her chest, feeling the hard little lump of the gift pressing against her ribs.
She should probably practice what she’s going to say. She can't just hand it over like some weirdo. It has to be perfect.
"Hey, Natalie," she tries, sitting up and pretending to casually toss the pouch into Natalie's lap, breezy and cool like someone in a movie. "I made you something... no big deal."
She grimaces immediately. No, no, that sounds too flippant. Like she doesn’t care. She cares. Like, a lot.
She clears her throat and tries again, putting a soft, serious weight into her voice. "I made this for you. I know it’s not much, but... I hope you like it."
Better. More heartfelt. Maybe she'd look down shyly when she said it. Maybe Natalie would reach out, tuck a piece of Misty's hair behind her ear—
Misty claps her hands over her mouth, muffling a loud, giddy giggle. "God, you're so stupid," she whispers to herself, but she’s smiling too wide to mean it.
She falls back again, hands flopping into the grass, and lets the daydreams run wild. She imagines handing Natalie the pouch and Natalie not just smiling but pulling her into a hug, arms strong and sure around her. Maybe Natalie would ruffle her hair and say something like, "You're a real weirdo, Misty... but you're my weirdo."
Maybe…Misty presses her fingertips to her cheeks, burning hot—maybe Natalie would even kiss her, right there by the fire, and everyone would cheer.
She laughs again, high and breathless, kicking her feet like a little kid. In her mind, she spins more ridiculous, sugary scenarios—Natalie making her a flower crown, Natalie carving their initials into a tree, Natalie dragging her off into the woods by the hand just to kiss her senseless under a sky full of stars.
"Get a grip, Quigley," Misty gasps, still grinning. But she presses her palm over her heart, where it thuds quick and wild, and she lets herself believe, just for a little while, that maybe some of it could be real.
Misty is still lying in the grass, hands clasped over her chest, face tilted up toward the sun when she hears the snap of twigs underfoot. She jerks upright, a flurry of guilt and excitement bubbling in her chest as she scrambles to her knees, instinctively smoothing her hair back.
Tai and Van step into the clearing, both carrying bundles of early spring herbs and small branches, brows raised in unison.
“Well, well,” Van drawls, cocking her head. “What do we have here? Misty Quigley... giggling alone in the woods like a girl with her first crush?” The corners of her mouth lift in lazy amusement.
Tai snorts, tossing her bundle over her shoulder. “Either you're shroomed out of your mind, or you're crushing hard on someone.”
Misty, flushed and flustered, clasps her hands together like she’s been caught in the middle of something sacred. “What? No— I mean... maybe,” she hedges, eyes darting between them. “You won’t tell anyone, right?”
Van and Tai exchange a glance over Misty’s head, a grin spreading slow and sly across Van’s face.
“Depends,” Van says. “Is it juicy?”
Tai leans in, half crouched like she’s interviewing someone on a daytime talk show. “C’mon, Misty. You can trust us. Who’s got you all hot and bothered?”
Misty hesitates for half a second. But they’re smiling, aren’t they? And laughing. That has to be a good sign. They’re being friendly. This is what friendly girls do—they tease and giggle and share secrets in sun-dappled clearings.
“It’s Natalie,” Misty whispers, practically glowing. “I’m making her a gift for Day of Giving. Something really special.”
Tai’s eyebrows launch skyward. “ Natalie? ”
“Oh my god,” Van says, grinning wide. “That actually makes so much sense.”
“Right?” Misty says, missing the undertone completely. “I mean, she’s so cool and smart, and she doesn’t treat me like I’m weird or anything.”
“Well…” Tai murmurs, eyes twinkling. “Nope. Nope. You're totally right.”
Van bites her knuckle to keep from laughing too obviously. “Misty, this is... this is gonna be epic.”
“I know,” Misty says, puffing up slightly with pride. “She’s going to love it. I’m going to give it to her tonight. ”
“Well then,” Tai says, turning to go. “Good luck!”
Van winks at her. “Hope she kisses you by the fire.”
They’re laughing as they walk off, their voices dissolving into soft, breathless murmurs between them—laughing the way people do when they think something’s ridiculous. Misty watches them go, a warm, content smile spreading across her face.
They’re wishing her luck. That means they’re rooting for her. That means they understand. That means they approve. She hugs the pouch tighter to her chest, feeling more confident than ever.
Tonight was going to be perfect.
The fire crackles low and steady in the center of the clearing, casting flickering shadows against the circle of stick homes and ash-dark trees. Laughter rises from a few corners where the girls are swapping crude carvings and lopsided bracelets, the warm kind of noise that suggests—for just a moment—they're something like okay.
Misty steps into the light with the pouch clutched to her chest, heart racing so loud she’s certain everyone can hear it. Her eyes scan the clearing until they find Natalie.
She’s seated on a log a little ways off from the others, half-turned away like she’s watching the trees instead of the people. The firelight makes her look carved out of marble, her shock of blonde hair brushing her shoulders. Misty’s breath catches. It always does.
She approaches slowly, reverently.
“Your majesty,” Misty says with a half-bow, trying not to smile too much.
Natalie startles slightly and twists around to face her, one eyebrow already raised. “Jesus, Misty. Can you not?”
Misty straightens, undeterred. “What? You are our leader. You ascended. You deserve—”
“You don’t have to bow. And definitely don’t call me ‘your majesty.’ I hate it.” Natalie rubs a hand over her face, already exhausted. “I’m still just Natalie.”
Misty tilts her head, unwavering. “All good leaders are humble. It’s one of the qualities that makes you... you.”
Natalie gives her a long look. Not unkind, just tired. Like she’s trying to decide if arguing is worth it.
“I made you something,” Misty blurts, holding the pouch out like an offering.
Natalie blinks. “Oh. Uh. You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to,” Misty insists, and sits down beside her, legs tucked neatly under herself. Her fingers tremble as she unties the red thread and carefully unpacks each piece.
“This,” she says, holding up the painted stone, “is a recreation of the Valentine’s Day card I made you. Remember? Back when we fed birds The bleachers. That was... really important to me.”
Natalie peers at it, recognition flickering in her eyes. “Damn. You remembered that?”
“I remember everything you do,” Misty says without an ounce of irony. “And this—” she lifts the charm made of squirrel bones “—is for protection. I read that bones can do that, if you arrange them right. And this,” she says, pulling out the tiny felt dog, “looks like the one you drew. I had to pull thread from my own blanket, but it was worth it.”
She lays everything gently in Natalie’s lap, eyes shining.
Natalie stares down at the strange, delicate bundle of offerings. Her fingers hover over them, unsure where to touch.
“That’s... a lot,” she says finally.
Misty beams, mistaking the awkwardness for quiet awe. “I know. I wanted it to be perfect. For you. ”
Natalie scratches the back of her neck, clearly uncomfortable. “Shit, Misty, I didn’t... I didn’t make you anything.”
For a moment, Misty’s smile falters—just the smallest flicker. Her gaze drops to the dirt, but she recovers quickly, pasting a brighter version of it on her face. “Oh! No, I mean... why would you?” she laughs, too high. “You’re like the most important person here. It’s not like I was expecting anything.”
Natalie’s jaw tightens. Her guilt isn’t loud, but it’s there in her eyes.
“Misty,” she says, softer. “Thank you. Seriously. It’s... weird as hell, but it’s really sweet. I guess I’m just…not in the celebrating mood.”
She offers a small, sincere smile. And for Misty, that’s enough. That’s everything.
She clasps her hands in her lap and watches Natalie run a thumb over the painted stone, heart thudding like it’s echoing in the trees around them. This is it. The moment. Her offering accepted. Her feelings seen.
Maybe Natalie didn’t make her anything today, but she smiled and there’s nothing worth more than that. Misty watches the way Natalie turns the painted stone over in her hands, like she’s trying to find meaning in the imperfections. Her gaze is soft, but unreadable. The fire crackles between them, and for a second Misty forgets how to breathe.
Then, carefully, she reaches into the inside pocket of her jacket and pulls out the last piece—flat and smooth bark, its surface carefully carved, each letter etched with the tip of her bone needle until her fingers had cramped. She holds it out like a sacred thing.
“I asked the Wilderness to spare you,” she says, voice low, secretive. “Back when you got picked for the hunt. I begged it. I prayed. I promised that if it did, I’d never ask for anything else.”
Natalie freezes.
“I think it listened,” Misty continues, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Because it knew you were important. To all of us. To me. ”
Natalie doesn’t speak. Her eyes flicker with something sharp—guilt, or discomfort, or maybe a kind of fear she doesn’t want to name. Misty places the bark in her lap beside the other items.
“I saved this for last,” she says. “It’s what I meant most.”
Natalie picks it up slowly, eyes scanning the words carved carefully into its surface.
You’re the best part of being stuck here.
She stares at it for a long moment, the firelight catching in the shimmer of her eyes. Misty doesn’t blink. She watches every twitch of her expression, every breath. Finally, Natalie exhales and knocks her shoulder into Misty’s. It’s not playful, not flirtatious—but not cold, either. It’s almost guilty. Not quite what they had shared on those bleachers.
“Thanks, Misty,” she says quietly. “Really.”
Misty clutches her hands in her lap to stop herself from grabbing Natalie’s. She nods, trying not to explode with happiness. Natalie stands with a soft groan, brushing bark dust off her pants.
“I’m tired,” she mumbles. “Think I’m gonna turn in.”
“Oh! Oh, yeah. Goodnight, Natalie,” she says quickly, standing to hug her. She thinks better of it at the last moment and instead stuffs her hands into her pockets. She rocks back and forth on her heels. “Sweet dreams and all that stuff.”
Misty watches her walk away, each step regal and enchanting. Misty would give anything for her to turn back, to smile and tilt her head in silent invitation. Natalie glances back only once before ducking into her hut, firelight fading behind her.
Misty stays where she is, blinking at the empty space she left behind.
She runs a hand down her braid to smooth it, cheeks flushed, heart full.
She leans back on her elbows, staring up at the sky, and sighs like she’s just lived a perfect scene from a romance novel. Natalie hadn’t laughed at her. She hadn’t thrown anything away. She’d said thank you.
Misty doesn’t receive anything else for the rest of the night but she doesn’t need it. She has more than enough; she has Natalie’s acceptance and she rolls it around in her mind until it seeps into every crevice of her mind. She commits the whole thing to memory, lavishes it. When she goes to bed that night she dreams.
Misty dreams of velvet seats and flickering lights. Of buttery popcorn and fizzy blue slushies and Natalie Scatorccio in a bomber jacket, standing in the glow of a neon concession sign, asking, “Want anything else, or have I already earned the title of best girlfriend ever?”
Misty laughs in the dream— too loud, too nasal —but Natalie doesn’t flinch. She grins wide, sticks out her tongue a little, and says, “You don’t need to earn it. It’s already yours.”
They sit somewhere in the middle of the theater, just far enough back to feel hidden, but close enough that Misty can count the freckles on Natalie’s cheeks when the screen lights up.
The opening credits roll, soft music swelling, and Misty tries not to shake with nerves when Natalie rests the bucket between them and lets their arms brush. Her hand is so close. Misty can feel the warmth radiating off of her.
Then comes a jump scare—loud and sudden—and Misty startles with a gasp. Natalie, calm as ever, just chuckles and offers her hand, lacing their fingers without a second thought.
“I got you, cutie,” she whispers, like a spell.
And Misty melts. The whole dream softens around that moment.
Their hands meet again in the popcorn bucket sometime later and Misty turns to look at her just as Natalie leans in, her breath tasting like fake butter and cherry slushie.
The kiss is warm and slow and perfect. Dream-perfect. Natalie pulls back, brushes Misty’s curls behind her ear and whispers something about how good she tastes. When the movie ends, Misty can’t even remember what it was about. Just Natalie’s pink-stained lips and the weight of her hand, steady in hers.
She wakes with the faint impression of popcorn on her breath and slushie on her tongue. Her cheeks are warm, her fingers still curled as if she never let go. Outside, morning birds sing in the treetops. Misty lies there for a moment, grinning into her blanket.
In her dreams, Natalie Scatorccio had kissed her. Held her hand. Bought her snacks and been her girlfriend . Had she been blessed with the gift of premonition? Maybe her dreams were not dreams but a glimpse into the future. When they leave the Wilderness behind—when Natalie leads them to freedom—maybe they’ll catch a movie.
Misty steps out of her hut with a spring in her step, hair carefully combed and a little sprig of wild mint tucked behind her ear—for freshness. The morning air is thick with spring, the scent of damp earth and budding green threading through the trees like a promise. She adjusts her glasses, tucks her notebook under her arm, and scans the clearing. That’s when she sees them—Natalie, Tai, Van, Shauna, and Lottie—gathered around the largest flat stone they use as a makeshift table.
A meeting. Important, from the look of it.
Misty hurries over, tucking her notebook tighter to her chest. “Do you need someone to take notes?” she asks brightly, already thumbing to a clean page.
Natalie opens her mouth—just slightly—clearly about to offer a gentle decline, her default setting when Misty hovers too close. But before she can speak, Van cuts in with a lopsided grin. “Sure, Quigley. We could use our own little secretary of state. There's a spot right there.”
She gestures to an open patch of moss beside Natalie.
Misty doesn’t hesitate. She scuttles over, dropping down with practiced daintiness, and opens her notebook with a crisp flick . Her pen is already uncapped, ready to record whatever wisdom spills from the collective mouths of their makeshift leadership.
But she barely hears a word.
Because Natalie is right there. Her knees drawn up, chin resting in her palm, her eyes focused intently on the conversation. So focused, in fact, she never once looks Misty’s way. Not even a glance.
To most, that might seem like disinterest.
But Misty knows better.
It’s restraint. It has to be. Natalie is too aware of her. She’s clearly avoiding her on purpose. Deliberately. Because if she did look at Misty, they’d both come undone.
Misty bites her lip and scribbles something vaguely coherent across the page, though it’s hard to write when her whole body hums like a plucked string. Every now and then, she steals a sideways glance—just to make sure she’s still there, still real. Natalie’s lashes are thick and dark. Her profile could be carved into stone. She scratches behind her ear with the tip of a knife.
Perfect.
She doesn’t even flinch when Misty sighs quietly.
The meeting drags on—something about hunting rotations and ration inventories—but Misty barely registers the words. Natalie shifts in her seat once, just slightly, and Misty’s heart does a backflip. She imagines their hands brushing. Imagines Natalie whispering something meant only for her. Imagines a secret smile, meant only for her. A kiss behind the hut. A hand lingering at her lower back. A future.
By the time the meeting ends, Misty’s notes are an incomprehensible mix of actual tasks and little doodles of hearts, stick figures with long hair, and the word Scatorccio written over and over again in looping cursive.
As the others disperse, Misty hugs the notebook to her chest, beaming.
Natalie hadn’t even looked at her once. Which meant something.
It meant everything .