Prologue: Up To Now…
Over twenty-five years ago,the sky over the Mojave tore open and five thousand Others spilled onto the desert floor in what people would come to call The Rift. Many species appeared on the desert sand: orcs, nagas, minotaurs, wolven, and others that had no basis in any of our folktales.
It wasn’t an invasion. No armies. No demands. Just people: shocked, some half-dressed, speaking languages no one knew.
The first human response was fear. The second was fencing. A federal task force corralled the newcomers into a ten-block area on the edge of Los Angeles. The government euphemistically called it the “Integration Zone.” Everyone else just called it the Zone.
For a long time, “integration” meant permits, patrols, and paperwork. Curfews. Menial jobs. Learning English while thecity learned to look away. And outside the fences, a chorus of purists shouting to deport them, euthanize them, erase the problem. Some days it was slogans and petitions; some nights it was slurs, smashed windows, and fires no one admitted starting.
But the world keeps moving, even when policy tries to hold it still. Kids grew up. Markets opened. Workshops hummed. A few humans drifted in for cheap rent or good food and stayed for the stubborn, vibrant community that refused to die.
Orcs brought craft guilds; naga formed councils; minotaurs taught rhythms you could feel in your ribs; and wolven ran night patrols that kept streets safer than any cruiser. Customs survived the fall: elders still teaching the old ways, aunties feeding whole blocks when money ran thin, and orc grandfathers laying ink to mark family with symbolic tattoos.
The Zone changed the city, and the city changed the Zone. Not everyone welcomed it—some still flinch at tusks or scales, and some work hard to make sure doors stay shut. Even so, more often than not, hands meet in work and care, in the small, ordinary moments that build a life.
At the center of those ordinary heroics stands Station 32: the heartbeat of a neighborhood that refuses to give up.
Chapter One
Laney
I’m screwed. Not just regular screwed—spectacularly, rent-the-auditorium-and-sell-tickets screwed.
The calculator on my grandmother’s kitchen table shows the same brutal numbers it’s been showing for the past hour: $6,000 short for next semester’s tuition. Six thousand dollars that might as well be three million for all the chance I have of finding it in the next two weeks.
I push back from the table and let my head fall into my hands, surrounded by the chaos of my financial reality. Bills spread across the wooden surface like accusatory confetti—tuition notice for my last semester of undergrad, utilities, and the truck payment I’ve been putting off.
My grandmother’s framed photo watches from the mantelpiece, her gentle smile a quiet anchor against the panic clawing at my chest. She knew I’d need this place after losing Mom—knew I’d need somewhere steady to catch my breath, to start again. She was right, as always. Now she’s gone too—Mom’s mom, my last tether—but this cabin remains the piece of her she left behind. A stubborn little refuge nestled in the trees, still holding warmth, still whisperingyou’re safe here.
This cabin is all I have left of stability. It’s the only place that’s been constant since I moved here after Mom died three years ago. Dad left when I was eight. My ex-boyfriend Jake took off the moment he realized I was serious about vet school and wouldn’t be available to hang out every weekend. People leave. That’s what I’ve learned.
But this place? These eight acres of mountain sanctuary? They’ve been constant. Grandma left it to me because she knew I needed something permanent, something that couldn’t abandon me or decide I was too much work.
Except now I might lose it anyway, because I can’t afford to keep it and finish school.
I’ve sold everything valuable I inherited except Grandma’s ring, which I’ll pawn before I give up on my dream of vet school, but it won’t get me close to six thousand dollars. I’ve applied for emergency student loans and was rejected faster than a bad Tinder date.
Which brings me to my current desperate scheme; it’s either brilliant or the kind of disaster that ends with me trending on TikTok under #PetSitterFromHell.
I eye the stack of handmade flyers on the counter. They read, “PROFESSIONAL PET SITTING SERVICES,” in my best block letters, complete with little paw prints drawn in the corners because I have the artistic skills of a determined kindergartner.
The plan is simple: make one-fourth of my yearly income during the two-week holiday period when people travel and need someone to watch their beloved pets. All I need is enough clients willing to pay premium rates for loving, individualized care in a beautiful mountain setting where their fur babies can roam safely while their humans sip cocktails in Cabo.
The reality check is simpler: I have exactly zero clients so far, and time’s running out.
I pick up my phone and scroll to Joy’s number. We were in community college together before I transferred to finish my degree, and she launched her Christmas wonderland shop. She’s one of the few people who stayed in my life when everyone else drifted away, probably because Joy has never expected me to be anything other than exactly who I am.
Calling her for business help feels a little desperate, but then again, Iamdesperate.
She answers on the second ring, Christmas music playing in the background. “Jingle All the Way, can I help you?”
“Hey, Joy. It’s Laney. I hope I’m not bothering you at work, but I had a kind of weird favor to ask.”
“Shoot. You know I love weird favors.”
I explain my pet-sitting plan, trying not to sound as frantic as I feel. Joy listens with the occasional “mm-hmm” and “oh honey” that makes me remember why we stayed friends despite going to different schools. She doesn’t judge, doesn’t offer unwanted advice, just listens like my problems matter.
“So basically,” I finish, “I was wondering if you’d be willing to share my flyer with your customers? I know it’s a long shot since most of them probably aren’t looking for pet care and I’m up in the mountains, but—”
