The beast kid

The Perimeter Loop at ten past seven was cold and very quiet, and The beast kid walked into it the wrong way round.

Nobody had told them there was a wrong way. There was only the path under old oaks, wide lawns going silver with dew, benches set so far apart you’d need to shout to share one, and a Gray Original balaclava full of morning air. And a glazed donut, warm in one hand, the only thing they’d brought besides their name.

Then the Counterclockwise came round the bend.

There were twenty of them, walking against the flow, dressed in oatmeal and ink blue. They met every Beast head-on and made a little mark in their notebooks for each face. The beast kid was new, and talkative, and in the way, so they were swept straight in. Before they knew it they were walking in the middle of the crowd, nodding at strangers like they’d done it for years.

A Hare passing the other way stared at the donut. It was the brightest thing on the path by a mile.

“It’s for emergencies,” The beast kid told them. “This counts.”

The Hare laughed. Out loud. Three Counterclockwise Beasts looked up from their notebooks as if a bird had sung indoors.

The Robot beside The beast kid leaned over. “Hello. I’m Gilly.” Then they stalled, glanced down, and started counting faces again.

This is Nowhere Parks. Beasts here are alone because they like it, and they talk in signed notes, so a conversation takes about three days. A spoken hello is rare. A laugh is news.

That was when Teo came jogging through, a Robot runner with a small sign on a pole that read PLEASE DON’T TALK TO ME, I AM RUNNING. They had a bundle of copies under one arm, and they were breathing hard and fast. Gilly peeled off the crowd and fell in beside them, and The beast kid, being swept, went too.

“Teo,” Gilly said. “I’ve been meaning to say. About Ama’s tea. Every evening it comes back full, and I think...”

“Running,” Teo said. “MoBA. Dusk. Can’t.”

The beast kid could see the whole thing. Gilly had been carrying that sentence for weeks. Teo was afraid of a late note the way some Beasts are afraid of heights. And the crowd behind them was still walking, still counting, and it would follow anything bright.

The beast kid could stop Teo. One loud joke, the donut held out, the whole Counterclockwise pulling up around them. One minute. They could do it. They were good at it.

But one minute was exactly what Teo didn’t have.

So The beast kid said the smallest thing they could find. “Give me half.”

Teo looked at them, and at the sign, and handed over half the bundle. The beast kid tucked it under their arm and matched Teo’s pace without another word. That was the whole trick, it turned out. You didn’t always have to talk. Sometimes the right word to the right Beast was the one that let them stop needing to answer.

Behind them, Gilly slowed on the path with the sentence still in their mouth.

The beast kid felt it like a tug on a sleeve. They didn’t leave friends behind, and Gilly had said hello first. So they turned, running backwards for three steps, and tossed the donut. Gilly caught it with both hands.

“Hold that,” The beast kid called. “I’m coming back round for it. Keep the sentence warm.”

Then they faced front and ran.