As Peter walked home, he wasn't sure what exactly he'd just agreed to—and he had no clue what his dad would think.
Maybe he'd finally get a reaction.
Then the ground started to shake.
Not subtle. A hard jolt ran through the pavement beneath his feet, like the road took a breath and shifted its spine. Peter froze mid-step, eyes flicking to the cracked sidewalk. A nearby street sign rattled in its socket. Somewhere across the block, a loose shutter banged against a house. A dog barked—short, sharp, panicked.
It lasted about thirty seconds. Not enough to knock anything down. Just enough to make the world feel…wrong.
In a patchy front yard across the street, a few kids playing soccer stopped mid-game. One kid's voice cut through the stillness: "That ain't normal." Then the group scattered, the ball left rolling across the dead grass.
Peter didn't wait either. He picked up his pace and jogged the last stretch.
By the time he reached the house, the sky had sunk to a dull gray-blue, the kind of color that settled in early when clouds hung low. The porch sagged a little more under that weight of light. A few weeds had grown tall enough to curl over the edges of the steps. One of them had bloomed—a yellow flower hanging limp, as if even that had given up trying.
Then the door creaked open.
His dad stepped out, one hand gripping the doorframe like he hadn't realized he'd done it. He was still pushing up the sleeve of his thin thermal shirt with his other hand. It was one of the older ones, with a stretched-out collar and a threadbare patch at the shoulder. Jeans. The same pair he'd worn working yesterday. Scuffed boots that didn't quite match.
His face didn't say much—but Peter could see it, buried in the little things.
The tightness in his jaw. The scan of his eyes across Peter's frame—shoulders, hands, face—quick and practiced, like checking for injury. His shoulders were stiff, like a man who'd been holding tension in his spine all day and didn't even know it.
Peter slowed on the walkway, breathing a little harder than he realized. He felt like a kid coming home late from something he shouldn't've done.
His father stepped out farther, boots hitting the old planks of the porch with a low thud. His eyes moved down the street—then locked on Peter.
Just for a second, something in his face eased. The line between his brows faded. His mouth shifted. He let out a long, slow breath through his nose, like he'd been holding it too long.
"Why did you leave the house?" his dad asked, voice low but tight. "Where were you?"
Peter stopped at the bottom step. A dozen answers jumped to his tongue. One of them—With my friends—almost made it out. It would've been easy. It would've worked.
But he caught himself.
If he said that, he'd be admitting it was something worth lying about. And when his dad inevitably found out—and he would—it'd be worse.
He gave the simplest truth.
"Learning something useful," Peter said. "I was with a hunter."
His dad's brow shifted. Not quite a frown—just a narrowing, like he was trying to figure out what Peter wasn't saying.
"You need to stay in the house," his dad said. "You need to be safe." The words came measured, but tight. Coiled. "I've been helping reinforce the town all afternoon. You don't just walk off without telling someone. You need to stay where people can find you. You need to stay—"
"Dad," Peter said quietly.
But the words kept coming.
"It's dangerous. People are scared. Desperate. You don't know what they'll do."
"Dad," Peter said again, louder.
His father pressed on like a dam cracking open.
"Your sister needs you. She's barely hanging on. You should've been with her, not out with people we don't even—"
"Dad!" Peter snapped.
That did it. His father's head jerked down, eyes finally locking on his.
Peter squared his shoulders. His palms were sweaty, arms tense at his sides. "The world's not the same. And I'm not just gonna sit in the house."
His dad's mouth went a little thin. His jaw worked once. "You can't just leave without telling me where you go."
Peter shot back, "And you don't exactly tell me where you go."
The porch creaked under them as a breeze pushed past, rattling the wind chimes hanging from the eave. His father didn't respond. Just stared. Waiting.
"I was with Jud," Peter said.
His father blinked. His brows twitched, disbelief cutting through the tension. "You mean crazy Jud? The one from Louisiana? The one who hunts by himself and keeps saying cultivation is the new way?"
Louisiana. That explained the accent. Peter gave a single nod.
"It is the future," Peter said.
His dad's eyes narrowed, sharp enough to draw blood. "Jud's crazy, Peter. Ask any of the other hunters. They've all said the same—he's full of wild ideas, always ranting about cultivation and energy like it's the goddamn second coming."
Peter blinked once. Let out a dry breath. "So… you've never actually met him."
His father's head tilted slightly, like he couldn't believe Peter was talking back. His mouth didn't move, but the muscles in his jaw worked. A gust of wind pushed through the yard, kicking up dry leaves that scraped past the porch. Peter's dad just stood there, fists slowly curling—not from rage, but from something coiled tighter, something heavier.
"You are not," his dad said, slowly and tightly, "to go near that man again."
Peter raised his brows. "Why?"
"Because I said so. I'm your father."
Peter gave a sharp, humorless breath through his nose. "That's not an answer."
His father stepped off the porch, his boots thudding against the step. "I'm telling you to stay away from him. Stay in the house. Stay safe."
Peter didn't budge. His voice stayed even. "No."
His dad blinked. "No?"
I'm not gonna stay weak," Peter said. "I'm going to get strong."
The words hit the air and sat there.
His dad stared at him. His lips pressed into a line, chest rising just a little faster than before. His fingers flexed once at his sides, curling in, then out again. His mouth twitched—like he was biting back more than words.
Peter held his gaze.
Then came the snap.
"You are grounded." His father's voice was firm, clipped. "Peter Alexander Walker, you are grounded."
The full name landed like a punch. That was Mom's tone—used when something serious had just crossed a line. It hit deep.
Peter felt heat rise to his face. "So I can stay weak?" he snapped. "So next time a bear shows up, we just stand there and watch it eat Nicki?"
The slap came without warning.
Flat across his cheek. Quick. Final.
His head turned with the impact. His skin lit up, searing along the bone. A warm sting bloomed, but Peter held his stance.
His father's eyes were locked on his.
Peter knew he'd gone too far. The second the words came out, he'd felt the line tear. But part of him didn't care. The anger had been waiting. And what he said—no matter how sharp—was still the truth.
He stepped back, face hot, jaw tight.
At the door, hand on the knob, he paused.
Turned.
"What happens when people start acting like the bear?" His voice was low, steady. "What happens when they get strong enough that rules and laws don't matter?"
He looked at his father.
"The bear didn't care about what was right. Didn't care about fair. It ate Mom because it could."
Then he opened the door and walked inside.
The door slammed shut behind him.