Mousing Teeth

ROS

Ros yelped as a tree branch whipped back and smacked her face. “Nova,” she hissed, rubbing at the small welt on her cheek. Half an inch higher and she could have lost an eye. Nova’s footsteps trudged along ahead, heedless of Ros falling back or the dying light. It was already almost too dark to see clearly. The forest loomed around them, the trees forming bleary outlines in the dusky light. She tried again, louder this time, “Nova!”

“Come on!” came the reply.

By the time Ros caught up with them beyond the next line of trees, the sunlight was almost gone. The valley spread out below them, bisected by an old dirt road and dotted with the grassy mounds — overgrown, abandoned WWII munitions bunkers — that gave the TNT area its name. It was a hangout spot for fishers who didn’t mind the contamination and for older teenagers, though Ros and her cousin had been here a couple of times before, back when they were still in middle school. Half-buried bottles, wrinkled plastic wrappers, and charred coals in small stone circles were dispersed along the forest floor. The occasional twig figurine with leafy wings strung on a sapling branch as an homage to their town’s main tourist attraction. Behind her, the lights of Point Pleasant flickered on against the settling night.

They took off down the hill, sliding through the long spring grass to level ground. They came to a stop in front of one of the rounded, grass-covered bunkers — the concrete domes that everyone called “igloos” — its doors graffitied with neon lines cast grayscale by the evening. Watching her cousin silhouetted against the berm, Ros sighed; Nova’s eyes were filled with a familiar, determined light. They were up to something.

Nova wasn’t tall, but they stood like they could be, shoulders back and chest out like that pose alone could defy the whole world. It was the same way they had stood at the eighth-grade science fair, in which Nova had tried to build a Faraday cage. It hadn’t worked, and they had to evacuate the gym when the display table caught fire, but Nova would do it all over again if they were given the chance. There was no stopping them once they had set their mind to something.

Ros glanced at her watch and then at the thunderheads collecting on the horizon. “This better be quick. I don’t want to get caught in the rain.”

Nova smiled. “This way,” they said, and moved past the igloo, down toward the wilder woods on the other side. Ros followed them beyond the edge of the igloos, sighing as they turned away from the road, weaving through the basswood and beach trees until they paused at the edge of a ravine. Together, they looked down the slope, and though it was not steep at first, it tilted at a dizzying angle just below the small wooden bridge that spanned its length. It was only about fifteen feet deep, as this slice of landscape was more wash than canyon, but Ros imagined that the climb from the bottom, riddled with roots and clay, was daunting.

Nova was immediately busy on the bridge, kneeling and scratching at its surface with chalk. The bridge’s angles were strange, and the gaps between boards were uneven. It was made mostly from pallet wood scavenged from newspaper drops.

“Hey,” Ros said, turning to where they sat criss-cross at the bridge’s center, “did you build this?”

Nova shrugged, continuing to draw.

Ros waited, eyes wide, but Nova offered no further explanation. “Why are we here?” she asked.

“Just give me a minute,” they replied, digging in their bag.

Ros pressed on the boards with her foot. They seemed solid enough, though every screw head was different and the entire contraption creaked under her weight. She sat behind Nova and pulled a library book from her backpack. Sometimes, it was best to just let Nova get something out of their system. So she half-heartedly listened to Nova work on whatever they were doing  for a while, their back to her, shuffling and shifting along the bridge. But eventually, she grew bored.

“Did you know foxes can hear mice and other prey animals beneath up to three feet of snow, from 25 feet away?” Ros asked, a little too loudly, reading the caption beneath a photo. In the picture, a red fox was perched intently, listening to movement beneath its feet. In the following frames, it pounced upward in a perfect arc before plunging straight down through the snow.

Nova made a noncommittal noise.

“It’s called fox-diving, or mousing,” Ros continued louder. “Without seeing their prey, they can tell where to dive just by listening, and look,” Ros turned the book to face Nova, “they come up with a mouse in their teeth. They seem to be better at this when facing north though.”

Nova glanced over their shoulder. “I am trying to focus, you know,” they said. Then, in a mumble, “How do they know which way is north?”

“I dunno. Scientists think they can sense magnetic poles or something,” Ros replied, glad to have gotten Nova’s attention back. It was one thing to hike out here, but she was irritated at the thought of camping out on a homemade bridge. She needed to finish her project. A section on mousing would nicely complete her portfolio board for display tomorrow. She shoved the book into her bag. “Would you please tell me why we’re here now?”

Nova shuffled a few items on the ground, got to their feet, then stepped away with a flourish.

A series of small items were arranged in a loose chalk circle. Ros shuffled closer on her palms and knees. She saw small toy cars at the circle’s edges, pinning down dark photocopies of what looked to be newspaper clippings. And in the center, Nova had sketched out a rudimentary shape, like an oval with wings. In the middle of its mass were two large red dots, like eyes.

“I never was an artist,” Nova said, watching Ros as she took in the display.

Ros looked up at Nova. She had seen them draw this symbol before, inside their notebooks and on sticky notes. They had once spray-painted it on a boulder. Ross sighed — Nova had promised this was for school — but they were out here looking for the Mothman. Again.

It was a hobby of some locals (and even more tourists) to go searching for the mysterious creature that plagued Point Pleasant back in the 60s, and Nova was no exception. They had always been obsessed with the Mothman legend. Something about the humanoid creature with dark wings and red eyes fascinated them. They had never missed a year of the Annual Mothman Festival, and practically every one of their social media profile pictures was of them beaming in front of the town’s 12-foot metallic statue of the Mothman.

“Nova,” Ros said. Her cousin flinched at her tone. “You said we were coming out here to do research for your project.”

“Well, we’re supposed to do something that interests us, aren’t we? Something that fits the local culture and environment theme.”

Nova grinned. Ros knew that look. It was the same look that had convinced Ros as a child that it was perfectly appropriate, even wise, to run away with Nova to the woods and build a life of their own as monster hunters. This new life began with a treehouse they assembled from scavenged branches, optimism, and a limited understanding of weight-bearing construction. When Ros had grown tired of an uncomfortable treehouse with no television or snacks, she used her “for emergencies only” phone and called her then-frantic parents (without telling Nova) to come pick the two of them up. Ever since that day, Ros was declared the sensible cousin, the responsible one, with Nova as her charge. They were older now, but Nova hadn’t outgrown their ambition nor beliefs about monsters.

The cloudburst on the horizon, creeping nearer as night settled around them in earnest, rumbled threateningly, as if to punctuate Nova’s announcement. “I’m going to summon the Mothman,” Nova said.

Ros burst into laughter, clutching her sides. The bridge groaned beneath them, as if it were also amused.

Nova waited until Ros came up for air.

Ros wiped her eyes and grabbed her bag, still chuckling. She threw a strap over one shoulder. “That’s really funny, Nova. I can’t believe you dragged me out here for this nonsense when I have work to do.”

Nova flushed. “It’s not nonsense.”

Ros rolled her eyes pointedly and turned to walk back toward the igloos. Nova grabbed her backpack, hurling her off balance and pulling her backward across the bridge’s misaligned boards. They froze as the whole structure seemed to tilt. After a moment of silence passed with no buckling or creaking, Ros shook Nova off and tried to leave again.

“Wait!” Nova said, hands up and pleading. They ducked down to gather the clippings they had arranged around their drawing. “Don’t go yet. I just need some proof.”

Taking a deep breath, Ros tried to channel both of their mothers and several dowager  aunts into her next words. “Nothing is going to happen,” she replied. “Mothman isn’t real.”

Nova stood with a handful of papers and waved them in front of Ros’ face like a fan, a blur of headlines and small print. “Look,” they said, shuffling the clippings and presenting one after another like an analog slideshow. “First, the gravediggers in Clendenin saw him, and then here in Point Pleasant — here in the TNT, when the army built all these bunkers for munitions storage — at least a hundred sightings between November 1966 and December 1967. And then — well — ” They stopped, gesturing to the bridge beneath them and taking a breath to continue before Ros interrupted.

“And then the Silver Bridge collapsed into the Ohio River,” Ros interjected, her voice a blend of ire and disbelief. “It broke and people died.”

Nova nodded. “But there were other accounts. Couples were chased in their cars on Route 62 by the Mothman, and even a mining accident in Germany in 1978. He scared the miners out right before it collapsed.” They held up a series of images, all clearly printed from the Internet: a black-and-white photo of a city in Japan, a run-down ferris wheel with the word “Pripyat” scrawled underneath, a darkly scanned tabloid clipping of two towers in a plume of smoke. “He’s seen at disaster sites.” Nova’s face was expectant, like this was sufficient for them to reach a shared consensus about their purpose on this handmade bridge in the middle of the woods on a school night.

Ros rubbed her temples. “Okay, so let’s say you’re crazy enough to actually believe that the Mothman caused all those tragedies. Why on earth would you want to summon him?”

Nova shook their head. “He doesn’t cause disasters; he just shows up wherever terrible things are about to happen.”

“I maintain,” Ros replied flatly, “that we should therefore not want to see him.”

Nova rolled their eyes and held up the camera dangling around their neck. “Well, I do. This isn’t just a project. I’m going to get legitimate evidence and tell my first-person account of seeing the Mothman.”

Ros had stood beside Nova during all manner of misguided experiments in their lives. But this wasn’t a treehouse near their childhood homes; this wasn’t searching the crawlspace for tiny civilizations or playing hooky to research famous hauntings in the computer lab. They were alone in the woods, in the dark, miles from home with a storm clipping towards them, wasting their time with something completely futile.

“That is the dumbest idea you have ever had,” she said coldly.

“Imagine if I actually get the shot,” they said, clutching the camera in their hands.

“Yeah, and then go ahead and make a fool out of yourself?” Ros shook her head. “It’s not going to work. But even if it did, no one is going to take you seriously. No one’s gonna think, ‘That’s a genuine photo of the Mothman, yes, siree!’”

Nova cut their eyes at their cousin. “You talk but you don’t get it. Why would you? You get on with everyone. The way people treat me at school, like, like I’m some sort of...” Their voice sounded choked and wet. “At least this way, I’ll have proof that I’m not.”

In a place like Point Pleasant, Nova stood out as different. They got teased for their pronouns, for their clothes, for being too quiet, for not having many friends. Ros often forgot that Nova was both smaller and shier than her. She was privy to a side of them — a boisterous, imaginative side — that was often hidden behind mediocre grades, mediocre test scores, and malicious schoolyard gossip. Ros intervened whenever she had a chance, but there was no way to protect Nova completely.

Ros placed her hands on her cousin’s shoulders. “I do get it,” she said, trying to temper her tone, “or at least I want to. I’m sorry.”

Nova was not looking at Ros. Instead, their gaze was angled up, eyes huge and jaw slack. Blood had already rushed from their face, rendering them pale and ghoulish.

Curious, Ros turned.

Looking around, she scanned the skies and tops of trees and didn’t see anything. Was Nova trying to trick her? If this was all some sort of prank, she could at least admit that they were committed. Nova stepped forward, elbowing Ros out of the way, camera already raised halfway to their face. They pressed the camera’s shutter-release button repeatedly, taking the same picture from the same angle over and over again.

Ros stared harder at where Nova’s lens was aimed. Her eyes found the shape, the dark silhouette hidden in the branches, before her brain registered what it was that she was looking at. And even then, she couldn’t find the words. Whatever it was, it was bulky, huge, and blacker than the shadows in which it lurked, a kind of dark velvet without texture or shade. Like a black hole, it seemed to absorb light from the space around it.

With a snap, enormous sails sprouted from each side, a dozen or more feet long. Wings, Ros realized. Confusion and panic washed through her. Was this some kind of prank? It had to be a kind of bird — just a bird. Some weird, gigantic bird. The creature pushed off of the branch on which it was perched, nearly ripping the limb from the trunk, and shot upwards, a dark spot against the gray thunderclouds listing across the sky. Nova hollered and whooped when it took off, still furiously taking photos.

When the shadow disappeared behind the blanket of clouds, Nova lowered the camera and was quiet. Ros felt her legs give out beneath her, and she landed on her knees with a solid thump.

The bridge strained and shook beneath them.

Nova snapped out of their daze. “Okay, now we can go,” they said.

But before either could say another word, it crumbled, and they fell, tumbling into the chasm below.

NOVA

When Nova awoke, the thunderheads had burst and were scattering chilly April rain across the landscape, and for a moment, Nova could only hear the white noise of droplets hitting the ground around them. They lied there, eyes closed, head pounding, trying to remember how they got there.

More sounds broke through into their consciousness: rattling trees in the wind, the shake of thunder promising more serious weather. They pried open their eyes and looked up at where the bridge had been. The ravine was steep, its sides a maze of soil and roots, and water ran in rivulets downhill toward the central channel.

The fog in their head began to clear. A couple of days ago, Nova had overheard some kids in study hall talking about a bridge near the TNT area. In a ravine, unsafe. Just the sort of place that the Mothman would appear. Nova had listened intently. It was the excuse they needed; a project on the Mothman and a chance to prove he was real.

The memory of the thing in the forest, how it soared into the air right before the collapse, came back to them in pieces. In the moment, they had been filled with such exhilaration, but also trepidation. There was no real reason for them to have dragged Ros along. She had always been there as their defender and confidant and sometimes their only supporter. When they were kids, that was enough. But they were getting older, and Ros had her own interests and social circles that didn’t always include Nova. She joined a volleyball team early in the year and had made a lot of new friends. Unmoored and alone, Nova had latched on to something for themself, paranormal and misguided though it may be.

Now, lying at the bottom of the ravine, Nova sat up and took stock of their body. Thankfully, nothing seemed broken, but when they pressed a hand against their hairline, it came away crimson.

They curled forward, pressing their palms against their face. They had tried to summon the Mothman many times before, always by themselves, always unsuccessfully. They had hoped that this time would be different; that the bridge, something with a little risk and some symbolic meaning, might do the trick. And the fact that it did — Nova wasn’t really sure what to make of that.

They took a deep breath, thoughts bleary with shock. Slowly, they stood and surveyed what they could of the wreckage. Broken boards were scattered around Nova and down the sides of the wash. Nova spotted their backpack and various clippings on the ground nearby, the latter having almost dissolved. “Ros!” they called. Their shoes squelched through the mud, and their eyes strained against the dark. Ros had landed on the side of the wash. Her body was twisted strangely, partially obscured by a board that crossed over her right side. Slipping on the mud, Nova skidded to their knees beside Ros. They pushed the board off of her and lightly patted her cheek. “Ros, wake up!”

Ros’ eyelids fluttered slightly as she stirred. When she did not respond, Nova forced themself back into a sitting position, knees curled up toward their forehead, eyes cast down in the dark. They tried to breathe, tried to plan. Tried to remember if they’d ever been told what to do if you summon a paranormal being on a shoddy bridge and accidentally kill your cousin.

They shouldn’t have brought Ros along. They had been willing to put their cousin and best friend in harm’s way for what? Something to show off to kids in school, a small sliver of notoriety? For some form of acceptance, even if that meant only among the school’s contingent of Mothman fans. Any acceptance, Nova had thought, would do.

Ros groaned, shifting in the wet earth. Nova lurched closer, hovering over their cousin. Her eyes opened slowly and focused even slower.

“Ros,” they said softly. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

Ros grunted in a way that Nova was unsure how to interpret. Then, she gestured at Nova’s head wound.

“I’m fine,” they said. “I think I’m fine.”

Ros nodded, flinched, and tried to sit up. With Nova’s help, she pressed up onto her elbows. Then she let out a choked gasp, and curled forward. Her right foot was in an unnatural position, her ankle had completely twisted in the fall. It was nauseating to look at.

“You have to get help,” she said, teeth gritted against the pain.

Panic flooded Nova, a white crush of terror. “I can’t leave you here alone,” they said. Thunder shattered the air around them.

“You have to,” Ros huffed. “I can’t walk.”

“No!”

“What else are you going to do?” Ros’ voice was strained as she pulled herself up into a full sitting position. “Carry me?”

They stared at each other, considering. Ros was a head taller and considerably more athletic than Nova, muscular and lean. Nova was slender, too, but neither so strong nor so fit as their cousin. In times of crisis, adrenaline could do miraculous things: make people stronger, faster, more resilient. Nova would need as much of it as they could get to carry her out of a fifteen-foot ravine, even in good weather conditions. The rain was slanting down in sheets, with the water rising beneath them. The sides of the ravine above were slick and wet, not ideal for climbing. 

“I’ll get you out,” they said, trying to force the waver out of their voice.

Ros stared at them, considering. Nova wasn’t going to leave her, that was for certain. So they could both stay down here until the wash absorbed what it could and flash flooded them out, or she could cooperate.

“Fine,” she said. “But we’re going to need to stabilize it. Give me my bag. I have a bandana in there we can use.” Even with the rudimentary first aid training they had taken at school, neither of them were truly prepared to treat Ros’ injury. Sprained ankles were one thing; this was clearly broken. Nova wrapped and then rewrapped the bandana around Ros’ ankle like a bandage, wincing in sympathy while Ros swallowed small cries of pain. The fabric wasn’t long enough and too taut to tie tightly, let alone in the dark, but it was better than nothing.

The rain surrounded them in curtains, obscuring anything more than a few feet away. Kneeling in the mud, Ros’ arms around their neck, Nova used a root to haul themself upright, straining against the extra weight and the slippery ground. They knew the way out of the ravine to the igloo road wasn’t unsurpassably steep, but there was no clear path from the bottom up, and the thunder that rumbled above them made every warning about lightning strikes they’d ever heard echo in their head.

The first step, Nova told themself, would be the hardest. Ros’ breath was wheezing in their ear, her arms grasping each other at the elbow, trying not to rest against Nova’s throat and mostly succeeding. Nova had one arm slung under Ros’ right knee in a strange, lopsided piggy-back, and their thighs shook with strain. For a moment, Nova thought that maybe they should go for help alone — but lightning lashed across the clouds, its forking path illuminating the river, already several inches further up the bank, encroaching on the spot where Nova woke up. They were running against the clock, and they were losing.

So they took a deep breath and walked.

They were wrong; the first step was far from the worst. Every step was an ordeal, a searing in their lungs not quenched by the deluge that continued as they worked up the hill. As they labored, one foot slipping in front of the other in the mud turning to sheeting sludge, they felt acutely aware of their heart in their chest, hammering against the effort.

Nova tried not to think about anything as they pushed onwards, especially not about what they would do if they stumbled or how guilty they felt for bringing them here in the first place. Should’ve stayed home. Should’ve done a project on actual moths, something safe.

It wasn’t supposed to be this dangerous.

That was what no one ever got — not their parents, not the kids at school, not even Ros. Things like the Mothman and Bigfoot weren’t monsters. They were creatures, living beings, possibly with an intelligence on par with or greater than humans. Just because people were afraid of something did not make it a monster.

Nova scowled. Maybe it was arrogant to assume that they could be the one to find him, to drag him out of the dark forests of Appalachia where he belonged. Who knew if what they saw actually was the Mothman?

The washes peppering the woods were no marvels of nature. The hills here were modest, receding into more significant topography further from town, but Nova thought they’d never climbed a steeper hill. Fire raced through their thighs and back, and whenever they were able, they reached through the rain to grab a root as leverage, pulling them both foot by foot away from the rising water below. They were making progress, but every dozen steps, Nova would stumble or move too close to a root, jarring Ros’ injury, and Ros would stifle a cry.

Halfway up the climb, Nova stopped and braced themself against a large rock. The icy rain had numbed their skin, but they still felt the tiny hairs on the back of their neck rise. Pure instinct told them that they were being watched.

Losing some ground in the mud, they turned to glance behind. Below them, in the wash, near where Ros had landed, a large, black shape stood. Its enormous red eyes observed them intently. The creature stood motionless in the mud, its huge black wings up, shielding it against the rain. Waiting.

Nova’s breath caught in their throat. This was the thing cryptid enthusiasts dreamed of: a perfectly still subject, close enough to get a high resolution shot that left no room for ambiguity or hoax.

If Nova didn’t have to hold up Ros, they could get that photo. Maybe they could set her down on the rock.

Lightning flashed in the sky, lighting up the ravine. Nova spotted an object on the ground at the creature’s feet. It was their camera! It had been torn from their neck during the fall.

The creature shrieked: a shrill, hawkish noise, loud as a jet-engine. It wormed its way into their skull and started tearing at the wallpaper inside. It was a sound, but it was also a thing, something they could touch and taste and smell, an encompassing experience red in tooth and claw.

When the lightning faded, the Mothman had vanished.

Breathing hard from the combination of terror and exhaustion, Nova tried to think. Up was the only way out, and the climb was slow and hugely difficult. If they went down for the camera, for the photos that they had already taken and the proof they so desperately wanted, then Ros would be left alone. It might take several more minutes for Nova to slide down the ravine, scramble back to Ros, and pick her up again. They still had a long way to climb and a mile or so of walking to get home.

The Mothman had given them a choice. Go back and lose precious time; keep moving and leave behind a chance to make a name for themself.

Nova turned to face the slope again, Ros’ weight leaden on their back. They thought about the camera sinking beneath the water and being carried away, some stranger discovering it miles away, considering it useless and trashing it, or, worse still, it sinking to the bed of the river to be never discovered — a myth, a legend, a truth buried for all time.

Ros’ shallow breaths tickled the back of Nova’s neck: a small comfort. They took another step.

Nova wasn’t sure how long they’d been in the wash, but they were soaked with rain and mud, their fingers coated in sticky clay, their skin and joints aching with cold. Ahead, Nova saw the slope tilt sideways, rising more gently upriver, whereas the part directly above them rose steeply into the woods. Two paths diverged, they thought, shifting their feet with relief to the gentler part of the slope. Instantly, it was easier to balance Ros’ weight against the muddy ground, and they could stand straighter. When they glanced back at the spot where the camera laid, Nova saw only rising water.

Ahead, a shriek burst from the trees. It was the same cry, the creature’s eldritch howl, pumping ice through Nova’s veins.

The Mothman glared down at Nova from the treeline before them, brake lights in the dark. It was difficult to determine where the wings ended and the forest began. For a long moment, they stared at each other.

The creature launched itself upward through the canopy and into the storm. Nova pictured the  fox from Ros’ book, head tilted down at the snow like a satellite dish, arching up in a perfect bow, spearing downward through the snow and surfacing with a mouse in its teeth. Instinctually, they raised a hand in front of their face, held it there and then slowly lowered it when nothing dove toward them. He doesn’t cause disasters. He shows up wherever terrible things are about to happen.

Lightning flashed, and once again, it was gone.

Nova stared up through the trees, shaking with cold and exhaustion. The wash was sliding in sections down toward the floor of the ravine, dirt loosened by the rain. The climb continued, slippery and slow, with only strangled roots as ladder rungs toward the top. Whatever the creature was trying to warn them about — the bridge, the camera, the easier path — they weren’t going to let it go to waste.

Groaning with the strain, they grabbed a root and hauled their bodies up, sideways, towards the steeper wall of the wash. They moved as quickly as they could away from the gentle hill that rose into the trees. With each step, the sliding earth betrayed them, pushing them down toward the water as they tried to outrace it. At last, with a primal cry, Nova felt their hand grab a sapling instead of a root, and they hauled both their bodies out of the wash, pressing into the sharp edges of the forest. Nova sprawled across the spring undergrowth, Ros flopping to lie down beside them. They were out!

A thick, fast, rushing sound, accompanied by the dense crack of shattering branches began to gain ground against the storm, drowning it out. Nova struggled to sit up and see the water racing toward them. It had found the path of least resistance through the hills, razing the gentle slope below them on its way to the wash. The speed of it was astounding. Roots tore from the walls of the wash and glided down the hill like spears on the roiling surface. Entire trees were splintered as the flood, foul with sediment and loam, overwhelmed the place where Nova had stood minutes ago and faced the creature.

And then it was gone: first a deluge and then a trickle, the wash ravaged with debris and cut with new canyons down its middle. It was a totally transformed landscape, and the force of its passing made one thing very clear. Nova thought about the camera, and the gentler slope and how anyone or anything in that path would’ve been caught in that flash flood with zero chance of survival.

They turned to Ros, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done this. I put us in danger, and you got hurt, and... I’m sorry.”

Ros, prone on her back and not meeting Nova’s eyes, said with deliberation, “Thank you for the apology.” A deep sigh. “You’re right. You absolutely shouldn’t have done this.”

Nova swallowed thickly and nodded. They deserved that.

Tired, Nova laid back down beside their cousin and looked up at the sky where the storm was abating. They could see nothing but clouds, but they were softer, grayer. The rain had receded to a soft drizzle. In a few minutes, they would get up again and start the long trek home. But right now, they needed to rest, plan what to do next. They thought about the fox listening through the snow, perceiving something no one else could hear.

“You know it saved us, right?”

Ros sat up a little. “Wrong. It didn’t save us.”

Nova smiled.

“You’ll be able to tell everyone, now,” Ros continued. “Give them something to talk about at school.”

Nova almost laughed and looked back into the trees. “I’m thinking it’s best that this stay between you and me. It doesn't matter what you give people at school. They’ll always find something else to talk about anyway.”

“No extraordinary phenomenon for your school project then?”

“I dunno,” Nova said, turning to their cousin again, “flash floods are pretty extraordinary.”