THE WILD SEASON

Chapter 1

PART I—PRESSURE

"Snakes strike most often under extreme stress.

You have two choices when encountering one in the wild—

slowly retreat, or cut off its head.

Hunger shall drive your decision."

- Survive the Woods, by Lt. Camilla Ortiz

Chapter One

My name is Molly Bates, and I learned to juggle the day my mother died. I can juggle real, honest-to-goodness beanbags, but that's a pastime better left to rookies. As for me, well, I can juggle bowling pins, and pinecones, and ice cubes, and kitchen knives, and straight As, and club presidencies, and prom committees, and second languages, and college applications and healthy weights and summer internships and tailored clothing and volunteer hours and everything, everything.

I can juggle it all, because moving those beautiful, delicate balls through the air keeps my dad happy. And I can't ever see him sad the way he was after my mom died.

My best friend, Anna Banana, tosses me another Ping-Pong ball and yells, "Faster! Faster, I say!" She tilts her chin and uses a phony British accent as if she's the queen of this party, and I'm her simple court jester.

I laugh and catch the Ping-Pong ball, work it into my rotation. I'm doing great, controlling my breathing, knowing the balls will never fall so long as I believe I'm in control. And I am Always. In. Control.

But then he walks in.

And the balls drop to the floor—one, two, three, four thumps to the stained carpet.

His eyes meet mine, and shock rushes through my body, replaced just as swiftly by anger. No, not anger. Fury, maybe. Definitely disgust. He takes a quick step in my direction before catching himself, and I see his eyes in more detail. They're greenish-brown. Hazel?

My skin flushes with raw nerves as Anna looks to see what's interrupted our fun. She notices him, and stands up.

"What the hell is he doing here?" she asks, throwing the guy a sickened look. Her gaze travels from him, to me. "Come on, let's get a drink."

I nod, but my feet are rooted in place. As the music pulses through my head, and the laughing, dancing bodies tilt-a-whirl around us, all I can think is—

Now I know the color of his eyes. I never, ever wanted to know anything about him. But now I know this, and it's something I can't un-know.

I've avoided seeing Colt Henry for five years, those eyes only ever cast in shades of black and white from the Pittsburgh Post. But here he is, standing much taller than I'd imagined, his chest wide, his hands large—a beast in man's clothing.

"I've gotta go to the bathroom," I tell Anna.

"Okay," she nods, resolute. "Let's go."

"No, I'm fine. I'll just be a second." I pull away from Anna, and rush to Gabe Carter's bathroom. Inside, I wash my hands until they're raw and then pace the floor. Back and forth, back and forth. Glance at a picture of Gabe at the beach with his dad, and wonder if Gabe's father is on patrol tonight. Wonder if I can stay in here until my problem disappears.