Chapter 1 - JASPER
The public library smells like old books, desperation, and someone's microwaved fish lunch. I'm pretty sure at least two of those scents are coming from me.
I slouch lower in the hard plastic chair, my laptop—held together with duct tape and prayers—balanced on my knees as I scroll through my phone. Well, it's not really my phone anymore since I can't pay the bill, but the wifi here is free and I've got another hour before they kick me out for loitering. Again.
This is fine. Everything is fine.
Except it's not fine. Nothing about this is fine.
I got evicted from my shitty apartment building last month. Then the transmission on my rust-bucket car finally gave up the ghost. So I've been crashing on my buddy’s couch and walking everywhere. Except my buddy’s girlfriend made it very clear last night that my welcome has expired. Something about ‘boundaries’ and ‘enabling’ and ‘you need to figure your shit out, Jasper.’
She's not wrong.
I've got $23.47 in my bank account, no job prospects, no car, and as of tomorrow, no couch. I've been applying for everything from warehouse work to dishwashing, but apparently my resume—which reads like a commitment-phobe's greatest hits—isn't exactly inspiring confidence in potential employers.
Three months here, six months there, a year if I'm really pushing it.
I'm a fox shifter who can't seem to settle anywhere, and yeah, I'm aware of the irony. But hey, at least my shoes don’t have holes in them. So I’ve got one good thing going for me.
My thumb scrolls mindlessly through social media. Everyone on my feed seems to be living their best life, sipping cocktails at rooftop bars, traveling to exotic places. I pull my eyes away in disgust, trying to shake off the envy that creeps in like a bad smell. Then I spot some feel-good story about a dog that learned to skateboard. It makes me laugh, so I decide to end my doomscrolling on a good note. But then the headline on a news post catches my eye:
URBAN FOXES INCREASINGLY APPROACH HUMANS - SCIENTISTS BELIEVE THEY'RE MIMICKING HOUSE CAT BEHAVIOR FOR FOOD AND SHELTER
I click before I can stop myself.
‘Wildlife researchers have documented a surprising trend in urban fox populations,’ the article reads. ‘These typically elusive animals are approaching humans with increasing frequency, displaying behaviors remarkably similar to domestic cats. Scientists theorize the foxes have observed how well-fed and comfortable house cats are, and have begun to mimic their behavior, approaching humans with apparent tameness, even rubbing against legs like cats do. Several homeowners have reported adopting foxes, saying they’ve become a wonderful addition to their household.’
I stare at the screen.
Then I read it again.
No. That's insane. That's absolutely insane.
But my mind is already spinning, that desperate part of my brain—the part that's been screaming louder and louder as my options dwindle—latching onto this ridiculous idea like a life raft.
Foxes are pretending to be cats to get humans to take care of them.
And I'm a human who can actually become a fox when needed.
"Oh god," I mutter, scrubbing my hands over my face. "I'm actually considering this."
The old woman at the computer next to me gives me a suspicious look. I flash her an apologetic smile and she huffs, turning back to her one-finger typing.
OK. Let's think this through logically.
I need: food, shelter, and time to figure out my next move.
Some kindhearted human could provide: food, shelter, and time.
The catch: I'd have to pretend to be their pet.
This is the worst idea you've ever had, the rational part of my brain argues. And you once tried to become a professional poker player with $200 and a dream.
But the desperate part fires back: Do you have a better option? Because I'm all ears. Or should I say, all fox ears? Yip, Yip, motherfucker.
I glance at the time. The library closes in an hour. After that, I've got nowhere to go.
My fingers are moving even before I fully commit to this insanity, searching for ‘pet stores near me.’ There's a big grocery store three blocks away with a decent pet section. If I'm going to do this—and apparently I am, because rock bottom has a basement and I'm about to explore it—I need to find the right person.
Someone kind. Someone who actually cares about animals. Someone who won't just call animal control the moment a ‘wild fox’ shows up at their door.
Someone with money wouldn't hurt either. Premium pet food would be better than some of the random shit I’ve eaten in my fox form. I swear the animal side of me doesn’t have tastebuds sometimes…
I snap my laptop shut and shove it into my backpack. The duct tape holding the corner together makes a concerning peeling sound.
You're really doing this.
Yeah. I really am.
***
The grocery store is packed this close to dinner time, and the Halloween decorations everywhere just make it feel dystopian. I grab a small, crappy cup of coffee from the vending machine—$1.87, leaving me with a whopping $21.60 to my name—and position myself near the pet food aisle while pretending to browse.
I feel like the world's most pathetic predator, stalking the pet food section for a suitable mark. But seriously, some of this shit looks better than the TV dinners I’ve been living off. And it’s not like I’ll be eating it with my human mouth. So…maybe I’m onto something.
A young guy in his twenties loads up a cart with the cheapest dog food available. Pass.
A harried mom with three kids screaming about candy doesn't even look at the bag of dry food she randomly grabs. Pass.
I'm starting to think this whole plan is stupid when she appears.
She's older, maybe early seventies, with silver hair styled in what my mom would have called ‘a sensible cut.’ She's wearing a purple cardigan covered in—I squint—are those embroidered cats? Yes. Yes they are. She's pushing a cart and humming to herself.
I watch as she stops in front of the premium cat food section.
"Now, let's see," she murmurs to herself, picking up a can and examining it like she's selecting fine wine. "The salmon pâté, or the chicken and rice? Oh, but Whiskers did seem to enjoy the turkey last week..."
Whiskers. She named her cat Whiskers. This woman is either perfect or a walking stereotype, and I'm too desperate to care which.
She loads up her cart with the expensive stuff—multiple cans, a bag of premium dry food, some treats that cost more than my coffee did. Then she adds a toy mouse and a sparkly collar.
"This will make her so happy," she says to no one, smiling to herself.
My heart does a weird squeeze. She's not just buying food. She's buying gifts for her cat. This woman genuinely loves her pet.
She's perfect.
She heads to the checkout and I follow at a distance, trying not to look like a creep. I watch her load everything into a pristine silver sedan and track her leaving the car park. She drives carefully, using her turn signals, stopping fully at stop signs. Then she’s merging into traffic.
I'm jogging now, staying far enough back that I won't be obvious, close enough that I won't lose her. My breath comes in huffs and my backpack bounces against my spine. I’m hoping I look like I'm running for exercise. Sure you do, Jasper. A broke guy in ripped jeans and a faded band t-shirt, definitely out for an evening jog through residential streets.
She turns into a neighborhood that makes my remaining $21.60 weep. Big houses. Well-maintained lawns. The kind of place where people have gardeners and cleaning services, and I really have to dig into that fox part of me to run fast enough to keep up.
I make the turn into her street just as she pulls into a driveway about halfway up. I stop, out of breath and gasping, and just watch. Her house is a beautiful two-story with pale blue siding and white trim. She has a few Halloween decorations up for the season. But there are flower boxes under the windows. A wraparound porch. The kind of place that says ‘comfortable retirement’ rather than ‘flashy wealth.’
I duck behind a hedge three houses down, my heart hammering as gathers her bags, and heads inside.
OK. Now or never.
I look around to make sure no one's watching, then I slip behind a sturdy trash can and peek around the corner of her driveway before darting toward the back of the house. My heart pounds against my ribs, each thump reminding me that I’m an idiot—an idiot with a silly plan. But who else has ever given this much thought to being adopted by a human? Maybe this is my moment for reinvention.
The backyard is a slice of paradise, complete with a manicured lawn, blooming flower beds, and a small gazebo that looks straight out of a garden magazine. It’s quiet back here, and I take a deep breath, letting the scent of fresh grass and flowers settle around me. I scan the area for a place to stash my backpack, finding a thick bush tucked against the fence.
I approach it, crouching low, and I feel a wave of absurdity wash over me as I shove my bag into the underbrush. I glance around. If I'm going to pull this off, I need to commit. I tug my t-shirt over my head and toss it into my open backpack. Then I look around again, feeling every bit the creeper as I quickly shuck my shoes and jeans, shoving them in the bag and zipping it up. Briefly, I think about how ludicrous this is—some dude crouching in the bushes of some old lady’s house, stark naked. But then the fox side of me flares up, eager and wild, and I close my eyes, letting the sensations swell.
The shift moves through me, familiar and strange all at once. My bones reshape, my senses sharpen, and suddenly I'm looking at the world from about a foot off the ground. My hearing picks up everything—a dog barking two streets over, someone's television, the rustle of leaves.
I shake out my russet fur and trot toward her house, my tail low, my ears back. I need to look pathetic. Hungry. Harmless.
I can do pathetic. I've had plenty of practice lately.
As I approach her back porch, I add a slight limp to my gait. Not too much—don't want to look injured enough to need a vet—but enough to inspire sympathy. I make a soft, whimpering sound and scratch the door.
Come on, universe. I'm a fox literally begging for scraps. Throw me a bone here.
The door opens and my heart leaps.
She's there, on the porch, looking right at me.
"Oh my goodness," she breathes, her hand going to her chest. "What are you doing here, sweetheart?” She leans down a little and I make another whimpering sound. “Do you need help? You poor thing."
Yes. Poor thing. Very poor. Extremely poor. Please feed me.
I take a hesitant step closer, then stop, giving her my best ‘I'm scared but hopeful’ look. I learned this from watching sad dog videos online. Who knew that would actually come in handy?
"Are you lost, sweetheart?" She comes toward me slowly, crouching. "You look so thin. Are you hungry?"
I whine softly and take another step, my limp more pronounced.
"Oh, you're hurt!" Her face crumples with concern. "You poor baby. Wait right here, OK? Don't run away."
She disappears inside and I resist the urge to do a victory dance. Or would it be a victory prance? Either way, it's working.
She returns with a small dish of what smells like actual chicken—not cat food, real chicken—and sets it on the porch.
"Here you go, sweetie. It's OK. I won't hurt you."
I approach slowly, eating from the dish while keeping one eye on her. The chicken is delicious—though my fox tongue finds random things in the forest delicious. But when was the last time I ate actual food? Yesterday? Two days ago?
Don't think about that. Stay in character.
"Such a pretty fox," she coos. "I've never seen one up close before. You must be so scared, all alone out here."
Lady, you have no idea.
When I finish eating, I sit and look up at her with what I hope are soulful eyes.
"You’re not wild, are you? I think you might be someone’s pet and you’re lost. Would you like to come inside? It's getting cold out here." She opens the door wider. "I know people don’t normally keep foxes as pets, but you seem so gentle. And that paw..."
I limp toward her, not quite believing this is working. She's actually going to let me in. A strange fox. Into her house. Just like that.
Thank god for crazy cat ladies with big hearts.
I cross the threshold into a home that smells like lavender and vanilla and—
Wait.
My nose twitches.
There's another scent here. Something wild beneath the domestic smells. Something that makes my hackles rise instinctively.
Another shifter.
Are you for-fucking-real?
I turn my head and there, sitting on the arm of a cream-colored sofa, is a tabby cat.
She's staring at me with yellow-green eyes that are far too intelligent, far too aware to be one hundred percent feline.
We lock gazes.
Her tail swishes once. Twice.
And I realize with sinking certainty that she knows exactly what I am.
And she’s pissed.
Fuck.
Chapter 2 - TABITHA
I smooth down the lavender-scented towel I've just folded and add it to the neat stack on the kitchen table. Bea's been complaining about her arthritis acting up recently, so I've been doing little things around the house when she's out. Nothing too obvious—I don't want her thinking she's losing her memory—but enough to make her life easier. Things like finishing tasks she got distracted while doing, or cleaning the small things she has trouble seeing as her eyesight worsens.
The vacuum is already put away after I ran it through the living room. The dishes are done. I even dusted the mantle, though I had to shift back and forth between forms three times because my human hands couldn't reach the high corners and my cat paws kept knocking over the picture frames—that instinct is difficult to control even on the best of days.
I glance at the clock on the microwave. Bea should be at her book club for at least another hour, which gives me time to finish the laundry and maybe take a shower. I mean, cats are constantly cleaning and grooming, but even I know that just means I’m covered in cat spit.
I can't help but smile as I recall the day I first met Bea two years ago. I was stuck in a chaotic shelter after getting scooped up by animal control in my shifted form, terrified and barely clinging to hope that someone would adopt me before I got sent to the big cat run in the sky. Or worse—spayed.
When Bea walked in with her kind eyes and gentle manner, I knew she was my ticket out. The plan was simple: get adopted, shift back to human, and bolt the moment I was left alone.
Except somewhere along the way, it stopped being an act.
Being a shifter sounds cool in theory—the freedom to be human or animal whenever you want—but the reality is that most of us are just broke and desperate. Before Bea, I was bouncing between shelters, sleeping in alleys, stealing food from dumpsters. So yeah, I took advantage of a kindhearted old woman who wanted to save a stray cat. Sue me.
Except I do love her. Not just the comfortable house or the gourmet cat food, but the way she hums while she gardens. The way she leaves the TV on the nature channel because she thinks I enjoy it (I do. Nature documentaries are my jam). The way she tells me about her day even though she thinks I can't understand.
"Whiskers," she'll say, settling into her reading chair with her mystery novel, "you won't believe what Marjorie said at the store today."
And I'll curl up in her lap and listen, purring, because it turns out that's all she really wants. Someone to listen. Someone to talk to.
She never had children. Her husband died five years ago. She lives alone in this big, beautiful house—I have no idea how she maintains it—and it's breathtaking, really. Every corner is filled with memories, framed photographs of her past, and bits of history I’ve learned just from curling up in the sunniest spots and eavesdropping on her phone calls. Sometimes, I wish I could ask her more about it all, but my voice is confined to a soft meow, a sweet purr.
So that’s how it’s been all this time. Just us. Me and Bea.
Life is damn near perfect.
I'm carrying the folded laundry upstairs, getting ready to take my shower when I hear the sound of Bea's car in the driveway.
What?
I freeze halfway up the stairs, my arms full of towels, very much in my human form.
She's not supposed to be home yet.
Panic flares through me. I race upstairs and practically shove the towels into the linen cupboard. Then I take the robe off that I normally wear around the house and hide it back on the highest shelf where Bea can never reach and close the door.
Shift, shift, shift!
The familiar tingle races through me as I hit the hardwood floor. Bones compressing, reshaping. The world grows larger as I shrink down to four paws.
Racing downstairs, I leap and land on the sofa cushion just as I hear her key in the lock, my heart hammering against my ribs.
The front door opens.
"Whiskers? I'm home early!" Bea's voice calls out, warm and familiar. "Dotty wasn't feeling well, so we postponed. I brought you a treat, sweetheart!"
I settle into my best I've-been-napping-here-all-afternoon pose, tail curled around my paws, eyes half-closed. Just a normal cat. Nothing to see here. Definitely didn't just sprint through the house after shifting from my human form.
Bea bustles in with shopping bags, humming that song she always hums. She spots me and her face lights up.
"There's my girl! Did you miss me?"
I meow—the universal cat greeting that means everything from "yes" to "feed me" to "I'm secretly a person and I almost got caught."
She sets her bags on the kitchen counter and I hear the rustle of cans being unpacked. My ears perk. Please be that fancy salmon pâté she bought last week.
"I got you the turkey this time," she says, and I decide that’s fine because I do enjoy variety. "And a new collar. The old one is looking a bit worn."
I don't need a new collar, but I purr anyway because it makes her happy.
I'm just starting to relax—crisis averted, secret identity intact—when something prickles my senses and I hear something at the back door.
A scratch.
Then a whimper.
My ears swivel toward the sound, every hair on my body standing on end.
What the hell?
"Oh my," Bea says, moving toward the back door. "What's that sound?"
Don't open it. Don't you dare open that door.
She opens the door.
And there, on the back porch, is a fox.
A russet-red, fluffy-tailed, amber-eyed fox, doing his best impression of a sad, injured animal.
But I know better.
Because underneath the wild scent, underneath the performance of poor lost creature, I smell human. Male.
Shifter.
My claws extend involuntarily, digging into the sofa cushion.
Oh, you have got to be kidding me.
Bea is already cooing at him. "Oh my goodness, you poor thing! What are you doing here, sweetheart?"
The rodent—because I'm going to call him that until I figure out his game—whimpers pathetically and takes a limping step forward.
Oh, he's good. That's a solid limp. Really selling it.
Fury rises in me, hot and sharp. This is my house. My Bea. My comfortable life that I've built over two years of trust and companionship.
And this asshole thinks he can just show up and—
"You look so thin. Are you hungry?"
Don't you dare.
But she's already heading inside, already pulling out the fresh chicken from the fridge, already falling for his act.
I want to yowl. I want to hiss. I want to shift right now and march out there and tell him to get his mangy fox ass off my property.
But I can't. Because Bea doesn't know. And if she finds out, I lose everything.
So I stay on the sofa, vibrating with rage, as I watch through the window while Bea feeds this interloper my chicken.
That was supposed to be my dinner, you furry bastard.
And he's eating it. Looking up at her with big, grateful eyes. Sitting pretty like he's auditioning for a role in ‘World's Saddest Fox.’
"Would you like to come inside?" Bea asks him. "It's getting cold out here."
NO. No, no, no—
But he's already limping toward the door. Already crossing the threshold into my house.
I get up from my spot on the sofa and position myself on the armrest, tail lashing, every muscle tense.
The fox steps inside, and for a moment, his ears swivel and his nose twitches.
Yeah, that's right. Smell that? That's another shifter. That's me, you asshole. And you just walked into my territory.
He turns his head, and our eyes meet.
Gold to my green.
I see the exact moment he realizes. The way his ears flatten. The way his tail drops.
Good. Be scared.
My tail swishes. Once. Twice.
I stare him down, putting every ounce of territorial fury into my gaze.
You just made the biggest mistake of your life, fox boy.
His eyes widen slightly.
That's right. I know what you are. I know what you're trying to do. And I'm going to make you regret ever stepping paw in this house.
"Oh, look!" Bea says, oblivious to the silent war happening in her living room. "Whiskers, we have a guest! Isn't he sweet?"
Sweet? Sweet?!
I hiss—just once, just enough to make my point—and the fox has the audacity to look worried.
He should be.
Because he might have fooled Bea, but he hasn't fooled me.
And this? This is war.
