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“Permanent Wildlife Officer, Screaming Woods Preserve.” My name is typed in the box at the top. Below, there’s a salary, a start date, and a line at the bottom marked “Signature.”

Permanent. I’ve never had anything permanent. Not a job, not an address, not a lease with my name on it. My whole life fits in one suitcase, and I’ve always preferred it that way. If you never unpack, no one can ask you to leave.

So why am I so eager to sign that my hand shakes?

I already know the answer. He’s seven feet tall and green, and he carves birds on the porch.

But it’s not just him. It’s Prue, who had a feeling about me before I even arrived. It’s Brody, and Celeste, and sixty people with shovels. It’s Molly at the low rail, yelling that she can see everything. It’s this rock, this bench, and this whole crazy town that never once asked me to take out my lip ring.

Okay, James asked. But James doesn’t count.

And it’s the moths. A bowl full of green light that almost nobody in the world knows about, and one big, stubborn orc who’s been guarding it alone for years.

He shouldn’t have to do that alone. Not anymore.

This summer, I’ve signed the confidential record with the whole truth and the public map that keeps the moths safe. I can live with that.

I dig in my pocket. All I have is the stubby pencil I’ve carried all summer, the one Holt used to write WREN’S LOOKOUT on my plans. Prue will probably make me sign it again in pen. I don’t care. I sign my name on the line, and then I sign the second copy, because there are two.

Then I go and find Prue.

Prue is packing up the coffee urns by the trailhead. I skid to a stop in front of her, out of breath, and hold out the folder.

“I said tomorrow,” she says.

“I know. I didn’t want to wait.”

She opens the folder, looks at the signature, and her whole face crinkles into a smile. “Welcome home, Officer Nicholls.”

Home. Oh, wow. My throat constricts all over again.

“Does Holt know?” she asks.

“Not yet.”

“Then what are you doing standing here with me?” She digs in her bag and tosses me the keys to her little blue hatchback. “Take my car. Go.”

His truck is gone from the festival lot. I drive out to the cabin with the windows down and my pulse racing a mile a minute. By the time I pull into the yard, the moon is up over the trees, big and round and silver.

Holt is sitting on the porch steps, not carving. He’s just sitting there, his huge hands clasped between his knees. When my headlights sweep over him, he stands up so fast he nearly hits his head on the porch light.

He’s wearing a clean shirt. A nice one. With buttons.

He’s been waiting for me.

I climb out of the hatchback. He comes down the steps. We meet in the middle of the yard, in the moonlight, and he takes both my hands in his.

“Wren,” he says, his voice low and rough. “I need to ask you a question.”

“Wait,” I say. “Me first.”

His ears flick back. “Little bird, I’ve been practicing this for two hours…”

“I signed it.”

He stops.

“The contract,” I say. “I signed it. I already gave it to Prue. I’m the permanent wildlife officer of Screaming Woods, and I’m not going anywhere.” I squeeze his fingers. “I love you, Holt. I’m staying. For you, and for this town, and for my Lookout. And because those moths need two guardians, not one. You’ve been doing it alone long enough.”