As Aly passed the televisions, the same documentary played in sync, photographs shifted with basic affects, a woman’s voice droning on about Alaska fading in and out.
“ -nearly twothousand and six hundred square miles… home to nine-hundred-ninety miles of shoreline with inestimable palisades, rocky cliffs, promontories, and beaches to explore… One hundred and five miles of it are girding paved roads, making it…”
With a baby face and shaggy blonde hair tucked beneath a beanie, the guy behind the desk didn’t appear much older than Aly. Hunched over a tablet in his lap with a dazed stare, he popped gummy bears into each cheek from a torn bag by a laptop blinking with a bouncing bubbles screen saver. Resisting the urge to clear her throat, Aly rocked on her heels. In spite of her nerves, she was intent on feigning patience.
Upon glancing up, his brow knitted. As he blanched with recognition, she glanced at his name tag reading ‘Franklin Clancy’ before he could stumble over himself to stand. Franklin fished for a clipboard and pulled a wire basket from a bottom drawer, lifting a blank report to clip beneath a pen.
“You’re making a report?” he clarified. As he spoke, an enlarged Adam’s apple bobbed in his skinny neck. “I am,” Aly agreed, half -smiling to mask a shudder. Her voice felt too pleasant, offering illusions of calmness. As her words met her lips, it sounded almost lyrical.
He offered it wordlessly, glancing through his hair. She felt his stare, feeling vulnerable to its invasive nature, as she backed away. Taking the nearest seat, Aly blinked at the neon clipboard in her lap. The front page requested a name, contact numbers, and other personal information. The second was filled with paragraphs of empty lines accompanied by a basic questionnaire.
Attempting to squeeze in every scathing detail, she fit the experience around available space, dropping fragments and estimated numbers in a loopy scrawl. It seemed too politically correct – If direct contact was made, what would you define the animal you encountered as (using common names)? Explain. Which classification of encounter do you feel you have according to an A (being sighted upon interaction with evidence recovered), B (interacted, not seen, evidence may be recovered), and C (assumed interaction, no evidence recovered) scale? Explain.
Explain, explain, explain. By the time she had finished, her knuckles ached, the pen hovering over blank areas as she reconsidered her thoughts. Unable to offer anything more, she stood, nodding to herself. Offering it to Franklin’s sweaty outstretched hand, she stared at her feet. As Aly tried to ignore his expressions – confusion, disbelief – she felt her resolve building. It crumbled when he blurted, “Alyson Glass as in Greg Glass?”
Aly shrugged. “Um, wow. Oka y, never mind. I need to file this and send it in for evaluation. They’ll be some people here to talk to you…” His voice trailed, distracted by something on her paper.
He flipped the page, revealing nails bitten down to the buds. She couldn’t tell if they were dirtied, blood-blistered, or carrying chipped remnants of black nail polish. Uncomfortable with the observation on a queasy stomach, she turned away.
“That’s really fantastic,” Franklin muttered absently, almost disbelieving. “You know what? There are some people who used to work with NESRA I want to take a look at this. Do you mind if I borrow your cell? I’ll need to upload the files.”
Wordlessly, she pulled it from her pocket. He untangled a cord from a dozen others piled in a milk crate at his feet, hooking it up like a flash drive. Typing something in, he grinned. Spinning his chair with a kick, he pointed to the screen over his head. Her photographs merged into a slideshow, popping up like an aver-key, every lobby screen in unison.
“Someone will be out soon for an interview” He sounded pleased as he returned her phone. After a moment, he worked on arranging a flood of copies, labeling several files with her name. In thick permanent marker, the manila folders became something daring– The Glass Case. It had become a political statement against her father, possibly against herself. Aly didn’t know how she felt about it.
Before she could return to her chair, Greg was running towards her down the hall. She paled, biting her lip. Silently, she rushed to build resolve. She could tell by his jerky movements that he was working towards confrontation. Bracing herself, she prepared for anything. Perhaps he was confused or angry; maybe he wasn’t aware of her until she’d caught his eye. They flashed now, a chilling blue.
Either way, he sees me now. There’s no getting out of it.
Before he’d stopped walking, Greg warned, “Alyson, you better tell me what you’re doing here right now.”
Aly crossed her arms, her defense instant. “I’m making a report.”
“How,” Greg yelled, “How did you know?” Her eyes slid to the people around the room, frozen and gawking. It occurred to her just how loud he was being. Trying to sound innocent and unaffected, Aly inquired, “About what?”
She failed. Her father’s hands shook. When he caught her confused stare, he tucked them in his elbows. Fists balled, exposed skin pulled white over his knuckles. “My work – how did you know about my work?”
“Townies,” Aly replied, an edge to her voice.
Why does he keep demanding something from me?
Disgusted, he spat, “What is this?” “Why am I being scolded? I saw something. Some friends identified it and pointed me in the right direction.” Feeling defensive, her fingers itched, curling into themselves. She dug her nails into her palm, a welcome distraction from the hurricane raging in her chest.
“This isn’t a joke, Alyson. This is my career. You can’t take this from me. You can’t take this too. I won’t have it. You’d regret that, I’m sure.” Tone menacing, his jaw set.
What is that supposed to mean?
Baffled, she stuttered, “I-I didn’t-”
Incensed, he demanded, “Did your mother put you up to this?”
What the hell? A lump germinated in her throat. Eyes wide with shock, she blinked back confused tears. Suddenly ashamed of her vulnerability, she curled her nails into her palms, desperate to shake it off. Unwilling to whisper, her voice hardened. Aly said, “She’s dead.”
Greg nodded slowly. Sounding distant, he smirked, “I guess so.” Blood boiled in her veins. She labored to control the spiraling rage in her chest. She wanted to hurt something, maybe him. It was painful to resist the rage to open her mouth and say a million things
– something, anything until it hurt him. She wanted to go low, to rip the arrogance that grated her calm.
The consciousness of the people staring around the lobby forced serotonin through the storm, but the state felt impassive. How could he say that? How could act like it didn’t matter, as though he had almost forgotten? As though the revelation was almost amusing? How could he not revere and love her mother as completely as Aly did?
She couldn’t fathom Vanessa allowing a man into her world that didn’t worship the ground she walked on. Aly remembered her mother’s words – “You are worthy of nothing less than the Alpha. You wait, watch, and you ask nothing of him because you never rely on a man. He has to prove himself.” Was it a secret to life Vanessa passed on in discretion, or a warning not to follow the footsteps that lead into her darkest mistakes?
She never said I was one of them. Greg shook his head in frustration to a thought he hadn’t shared. Stalking away from her, he ripped the folder from a statuesque blonde woman’s hands as she discussed them with a coworker. She threw her hands up, waving, calling after him. Greg ignored her indignant threats, flipping through the pages. He slowed to a stop, silent. His lip curled.
“You have got to be kidding me,” he snarled. Shoving splayed contents back between the manila covers, he shook it in Aly’s face. “What the hell is this?”
Why does he keep demanding something from me? The blonde materialized behind him, stiffly tapping his shoulder. He spun to face her, meeting a look of death, a hand on her hip. She ripped the file from his hands, turning and walking away without a word. Greg’s fa
ce reddened, following with anger bleeding from his stance.
“You’re actually taking this seriously?” He yelled. His arms stretched out, as though he was waiting measuring wingspan. Something about it put Aly on edge, her nerves flooded with alarm. It seemed aggressive and self-gratifying at once.
“How do you recommend it be handled, Greg?” The woman responded, voice curt. She kept her back to him. Finally glancing over her shoulder, she inquired, “Alyson, are you still holding that this is a legitimate report?”
Aly nodded, rubbing her arm. It was too warm in the building, but she had grown cold. Ignoring Greg’s glare, she raised her voice, “Of course.”
This is wrong– it’s happening way too fast. My head’s spinning. The woman smiled. It seemed genuine, managing to overlook Greg completely. Aly realized she reminded her of her mother. “Fantastic. If our screening approves, I’m launching investigation. If only to extend Doctor Glass’s comfort zone – think of it as professional development.” Her eyes narrowed on Greg, smile dissipating. “It’s good to be challenged by our colleagues – even better by our supervisors. Now, would you do me a favor and follow up on the Yaver report like I requested this morning, and the morning before?”
“You-” Greg began.
What is going on? I’ve never seen him like this.
“Now, Gregory.” She interrupted. Her voice was too polite, somehow a warning, as she added, “Please and thank you.” Greg glowered, his animosity momentarily on his boss, rather than Aly. She breathed a sigh of relief, moving to sit closer to the desk. It felt safer, as though the distance allowed her to stay out of sight despite the open-layout. Though tempted to move to the couches as they vacated, she held still. He stalked down a back hallway to gather himself.
Or plot revenge and world domination. After a moment, the woman moved to continue her conversation. As another researcher in casual work clothes joined them, Aly’s interest was piqued. Her relocation put them in hearing distance. She knew they were discussing her, or at least her case.
“What’s the word, Jocelyn?” She finished her sentence, ignoring the interruption. “…It appears two teens with her are refusing to come forward. She claims the third will show in the morning.”
A scrawny man in a lab coat groaned. He turned enough to reveal red stitching with the title Oliver Grooves above a breast pocket. “Can’t we deal with it then?”
Pushing her bangs from her eyes, she shifted the papers, reading one page while fumbling to recover a photograph beneath it. “It’s a classic rock throwing encounter, with photographs. They’re way to unclear to identify any animal, but it’s still a reiteration of validity. Did you see the picture of her leg?”
Oliver nodded. “Yeah… It looks like she was in the way of an assault weapon… kicked a grenade or something.” A taller man with braids pulled into a wide ponytail shrugged, adding ardently, “Plus, bears have no known record of throwing rocks.”
“Honestly Darrin, all of this is irrelevant to one fact: that’s Greg
Glass’s daughter.” Oliver shook his head.
“It’s all the more reason to look into it. He’s a serious guy,” Darrin sighed, rubbing his brow.
“Yeah, but he’s hardly Mr. Moral,” Oliver argued, pushing half- rimmed glasses up his nose. “If it’s any help, I absolutely believe her– or enough to give her the benefit of the doubt. It’s our job to investigate claims. We treat known hoaxers with more open minds. Don’t blacklist the kid.” Darrin motioned with each sentence like a conductor, offering a sincere expression to Oliver’s doubting face and seeking encouragement from Jocelyn’s. She nodded each time, avid in agreement.
Jocelyn nodded. “Exactly. It’s necessary, no matter your personal feelings.” “Whatever. You’ve got paperwork.” Oliver shoved the papers into Jocelyn’s hands, seeming more exhausted than irritated. He bumped into her arm playfully as he moved past. She spun around, eyes following as he speed-walked towards what seemed like a break-room from a limited glance. She stuck out her tongue, he responded with a taunting leer. Crude hand gestured where exchanged until he finally disappeared behind the wall, leaning as though someone pulled him inside while he struggled to stay behind for the last word.
Walking alongside each other, Darrin and Jocelyn smiled at Aly mid-conversation as they passed. Unsure how to respond, she nodded. Self-conscious, she stared at the colorful Band-Aids along her skin like stepping stones, wishing she’d worn something more modest than shorts.
The sound of a solid bass erupted from the front desk. Caught off guard, she flinched. Seeking the source, she noticed someone rush to pull the phone from their pocket and silence it without a glance.
Even with his back to Aly, the man at the counter was an interesting sight. Tall and skinny, he seemed almost lopsided with stocky shoulders attached to such gangly limbs. The hems of his skinny jeans were inches above his ankles, revealing clashing socks sprouting from sneakers with neon laces. Against his clean-cut torso, including a professional blazer and his military-esque crew cut, it blared like an alarm, distracting.
Unsure what compelled her, Aly stood, drifting to his side. He leaned on the counter above the desk, shifting through ink-fading photographs she recognized as her own. Noting the illegible tattoos running across his knuckles, she inquired, “Is everyone here reviewing the file?”
Clearing his throat to mask a surprised jump, he blurted, “You’re Alyson Glass.”
Amused, she nodded. He stood, offering a hand and a grin. “I’m Banes. Rowley Banes.”
“Like James Bond?” Pleased she understood his reference, he nodded, lifting the stack. “Almost everyone. Most of our work is amongst ourselves. There’s usually a lot to circulate, but the area doesn’t really get hit with reports until tourist season. You’ve broken the calm before the storm, Alyson. They’re freaked and flurrying.”
“So is everyone,” she concluded, dismissing his explanation. “Who works with this stuff anyway?” “There’s all sorts of people who work with this. Sketch artists, professional imitators, DNA diagnostics and polygraph experts, biologists, archaeologists, zoologists, cryptologists, private investigators, field researchers, trackers, teachers, professors, doctors, journalists, cops, even friends of friends… any- and everyone who’s seen it or wants to. One guy was in charge of wildlife for the United Nations. It’s crazy. It’s hush-hush. There’s a lot invested in the field.”
Aly raised a brow, joking, “And I’ll bet they just come running to work with you guys.” Rowley g rinned. “We can instigate them – knocking, mimicking vocalizations, even using machines and acoustics. You wait until the animals grow silent, it’s their instinct to lay low when a ‘squatch is around. The tricky part is, when they’re provoked enough to actually interact, they’re extremely aggressive. The key is to try to make it seem like accidental attraction. They’re usually more curious than confrontational. But they’re very protective of their young, and since they travel in families, a baby‘squatch is always around. You know how mamabears are? It’s a very similar situation. There’s a fine line between scaring them off, getting them curious, and threatening their territory.”
“So it’s dangerous?” she clarified. “We think they’re omnivores, but I’ve neve r heard of anyone being eaten by one,” Rowley’s voice teased. “In case things go wrong, everyone in the area is trained to handle the worst. Usually we can keep the expeditions isolated from human interference. We work to reinforce posts on protective laws in supported regions so it’s a haven from hunters. It’s really important to keep their habitats intact and the numbers up in their species, since they’re so rare and we know so little about them.”
“They’re just regular animals, then?” Aly asked. “They’re not halfhuman like the legend says?” “Of course not. We think they’re a plain old North American primate – which is pretty amazing in and of itself. It’s totally possible. We think they’re a descendent of Gigantopithecus, adapted to a different environment. See, Giganto proba
bly migrated from the Bering land bridge. Chinese apothecaries often hunted the big guys and sold them as dragon’s teeth for pagan rituals.” Eyes wide, he added, “No wonder then ran over, right?”
Aly had to laugh. She understood little of what he said, but his joy was contagious. The way Rowley spoke reminded her of Noah when he told his stories, filled with expression and details of idiosyncrasy. It occurred to Aly that her mother was the same way, when rattling off odd facets of her workday or imitating doctors to force humor into their fears.
I wish they hadn’t been so valid. Noah reminded Aly of a happier life. It was never easy, with school perpetually awkward and her only parent consistently nailed with work at ungodly hours across a myriad of jobs. Even once Vanessa found schedules in the nine-to-five, jobs were layered with online classes and culinary seminars, most of it falling away with sudden hospitalizations. If Greg hadn’t agreed under threats of faltering child support to maintain the condo fees, she would have been packed into Francesca’s lower trundle years before stage four.
It’s a wonder he never renounced parental rights.
She released he was waiting for her to respond. Blinking to recover, she inquired, “So, how do you usually find them?” “Well, you look for high breaks in the trees. Higher, with more damage than other animals with that mass can do. When the cedar trees are upside down, we call those inverted. They’re dead giveaways.”
Her brow knitted, images of the tunnel flashing through her head.
“But how would you even know where to look?” “We follow migration paths based on blank areas in the rest of the ecosystem. They’re pretty common on premade trails, but many animals are. It makes it harder to find their tracks. We think they’re soft-footed, so the grasses spring back after a good rain. Leaf litter is a problem, too,” Rowley sighed, shifting through the photographs again.
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