“Look,” Prescott whispers suddenly, pointing to our right.
A doe and her fawn stand frozen in a clearing, watching us with dark, liquid eyes. We all stop, even Hamilton. For a moment, just the five of us exist in perfect stillness. Then the doe flicks her tail, and both deer bound away in graceful leaps.
“Wow,” I breathe.
“You don’t see that in boardrooms,” Ruby says quietly.
She’s right. There's something here that no blueprint could capture, no 3D rendering could simulate.
It’s wild.
Untamed.
Real in a way that makes my carefully constructed world feel a little too flat.
We hike for another hour, and I notice something strange happening to all of us.
Prescott is the first to show visible changes—his wavy hair can’t quite hide the pointed ears that have emerged, twitching at every forest sound. Then his tail—pink and curly—pokes out from beneath his hiking shirt, wagging with undisguised joy.
My own ears start to tingle next. I reach up and feel them—longer, pointed, definitely not human anymore. It’s been years since I’ve let my animal side show unintentionally.
In the city, we keep it hidden, except for our tusks. Controlled. Professional. But out here…
“Your ears are out,” Hamilton hisses at me.
“So?” I shoot back. “We’re in the middle of nowhere. Who’s going to see? The squirrels?”
“It’s unprofessional.”
“We’re hiking, not presenting quarterly projections.”
Hamilton starts to respond, then stops, nostrils flaring slightly. Despite his protests, I notice his breathing has deepened too, taking in the forest scents with an intensity that’s more pig than human. His jaw relaxes, shoulders lowering from their perpetual business posture.
Ruby notices too. She catches my eye and gives me a knowing look that says, See? Told you.
We stop by a small stream for water, and Prescott—now sporting a full pig snout alongside his ears and tail—splashes happily in the shallows.
“Prescott, for God’s sake,” Hamilton calls, but there’s less edge to his voice than before.
I sit on a fallen log, watching sunlight dapple the forest floor. The development plans flash through my mind—the buildings we’d sketched, the roads we’d mapped, the trees we’d marked for removal.
Something uncomfortable twists in my chest.
“You’re quiet,” Ruby says, settling beside me.
“Just thinking.”
“Dangerous pastime.”
“So I’ve been told.” I glance at her. “Is this working? Your little nature therapy session?”
She shrugs, but there’s a hint of smugness in the gesture. “You tell me, Porkwell. Your ears are out, you haven’t checked your phone in forty minutes, and you just watched a butterfly for a full minute without blinking.”
“I did not—”
“Yeah, you did. It was almost cute, in a pathetic city-boy way.”
I should be annoyed, but instead, I find myself laughing. “You’re really something, you know that?”
