Page 6 of Pretty Thing

Felix hops up beside me and grabs my hand again once the stretcher is loaded in the back of the ambulance. I take a steadier breath as if he is the only source of oxygen.

Felix leans in, his face the last solid thing I see.

“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. I promise you.”

The doors slam shut, deafening and far too close. My head throbs.

The ceiling swims above me as darkness creeps in from the edges. Felix’s face disappears. I fight it. I don’t want to sleep. I don’t want to wake up alone. I want my parents to be okay. I…

The last thing I hear is the medic calling out numbers and the siren screaming into the night. Just before the darkness pulls me under, I can’t help but think how cruel it is to finally know who you’re meant to be…only to lose everything.

two

​. . .​

Eden

I’ve never felt this steady.

Redwood Falls University is nestled in the Ottawa Valley, backs directly onto Algonquin Provincial Park, and is what I consider one of the prettiest spots on earth. The place just hits different and sings in my chest like an echo. I didn’t expect it to feel so alive, so like me.

I expected buildings, lecture halls, and people trying too hard to sell me a future they don’t fully believe.

Instead, there are trees woven into the campus, and trails leading into the forest from every building, as if the school is truly one with the wilderness. There are outdoor classrooms and lookouts for research, studying, and yoga. Even now in the dead of winter, students and teachers are smiling and happily working among nature.

Students sprawl on the grass of the indoor park situated in the middle of the school. It’s a wonderland of green grass, trees, flowers, rocks, and benches enclosed in glass to let in natural light.

I sit in on two classes. The second one really inspires me. The professor speaks about tracking wolf populations, the importance of their presence in our ecosystem, and the need to protect them. Every word is a call to arms. This is the kind of passion I’ve been searching for the last year.

Everyone seems so…happy and dedicated. It feels like a home away from home.

Wildlife Biology. Conservation Ecology. One day I’ll focus specifically on studying and saving sea turtles.

I say the words out loud during the tour, half expecting them to feel heavy or wrong after spending so much time trying to decide what I want to do with my life. They don’t. They fit me perfectly.

Mom cries, of course, when I tell her that this is it. I want to attend. Not tears of sadness, but joy. Her eyes fill with pride and love, making the decision so much easier. She hugs me like she’s afraid the moment may disappear if she loosens her grip.

Dad smiles, his real one. Not the polite one he uses when he doesn’t fully understand me but supports me anyway.

“This fits you,” he says. “You’ve always loved animals and science. You listen to the world differently than the rest of us. My baby girl will help save the world.”

“Oh my god, Dad…I’m only one person.”

He beams. “That’s all it takes, and I have faith.”

After the tour, we eat at a little diner just off campus. Vinyl booths. Greasy menus. A waitress who calls everyone sweetheart and refills coffee before it’s empty. We laugh at stupid jokes and eat way more than we should. We talk about dorms, fieldwork, and how I can’t wait to take a trip to the ocean. One of the courses is a month-long excursion with hands-on research opportunities.

This weekend feels like a beginning. That should scare me after taking a gap year, but all I feel is excitement.

I sit in the backseat with my shoes kicked off, feet tucked under me, forehead resting against the cool window. The late afternoon sun cuts through the trees. Gold and pink ribbons turn the road into something cinematic. A scene you can replay later and realize it matters.

I’ve always loved this area. Camping and hiking in Algonquin Park is the highlight of every summer. Now that my parents have the fancy RV, it’s even better. I like the air conditioning on a hot, sticky night. I’m getting fussy at my ripe old age of eighteen.

Mom hums quietly in the passenger seat as her fingers weave balls of yarn into something amazing. She’s always knitting something, and I can’t even create a square.

Dad drives casually, the man in charge, with one hand on the wheel and the other hovering near the now cold coffee he forgot to drink. I smirk as he picks it up, takes a sip, and gags.

“Gross,” he says.