Sonja's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Sonja had barked at three hikers, one dog, and a man who parked too close to the trailhead. She liked it that way. A ranger with a scowl kept people at a safe distance. But every Thursday, a group of volunteers came to mend the old rail fence, and one of them made her smile. She hated that she smiled. She hated more that she didn't know their name. She had tried to catch them four weeks running. Each time, she arrived too late. The volunteers packed up. The pickup truck rumbled off. Sonja stood at the split-rail fence with her arms crossed, staring at fresh nails in the weathered posts. She didn't know the schedule. She didn't know the name. So she kept missing every chance to speak. This Thursday, she came early. She hid her boots behind a shrub and waited near the fence. A plump red squirrel watched her from a post, tail curled, eyes bright. "Don't judge me," she muttered. The squirrel flicked its tail and stayed. The truck arrived. The volunteers spilled out with hammers and gloves. Sonja stepped forward, ready, and her voice locked in her throat. She scowled instead, out of habit. The group scattered to work. Her chance thinned again. Then the squirrel bolted along the top rail and knocked a jar off a post. The jar rolled. Inside, fireflies blinked their soft yellow light. One volunteer lunged and caught it before it broke. They laughed and lifted it toward Sonja. "You almost lost these," they said. "I catch a few every Thursday. Helps the kids at the shelter fall asleep." Sonja looked at the glowing jar, then at the person holding it. The smile came before she could stop it. She uncrossed her arms. "You're here every Thursday?" she asked. "Nine to noon. Sometimes later." They tucked the jar under one arm and offered a hand. "I'm Rowan." Sonja shook it. Her palm was rough with dirt. She didn't pull away. "Sonja," she said. "Ranger." "I know." Rowan grinned. "You yelled at me my first week." The squirrel chattered from the post. Sonja felt heat climb her neck. She had the name now. She had the schedule. Nine to noon, every Thursday. The thing she'd chased for a month sat plain in front of her. But Rowan slid a folded flyer from a back pocket and held it out. "Since you're here early," they said, "we could use a ranger to lead the trail walk this Saturday. For the volunteers. You in?" Sonja stared at the flyer. A whole morning beside Rowan, with her act to keep and her smile to hide. She should have said no. She heard herself say yes.