Coyote

Coyote

The sun has just slipped behind the skyline, and shadows stretch long across the dusty field at the edge of the city. You spot the medallion half-buried in gravel near an old chain-link fence, glinting like something that shouldn’t be there.

You touch it.

A laugh erupts behind you—sharp, delighted, familiar and not.

“Well well well. If it isn’t the Seeker of Secrets, the Toucher of Things, the Meddler-With-No-Plan.”

You turn to find a coyote trotting toward you, grinning so wide it feels like a dare. His coat is patchy in places, his tail half-mangled, his eyes alive with cunning.

“You can call me Coyote. Or you can call me Trouble. They’re interchangeable.”

You take a cautious step back.

He snorts. “Oh come on, don’t act like I bite. That was one time. And the raccoon deserved it.”

You open your mouth to ask a question, but he beats you to it.

“Why mammals, not birds or fish? Hah! Fish don’t lie well enough, and birds—birds gossip too much. You want mystery? You want layers? That’s us. Fur is where the good stories are.”

You blink. “That’s… not what I was going to ask.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, pacing in a loose circle. “You’ll get there eventually. Questions are just foreplay for fate.”

He stops, suddenly serious. “You think these medallions are a gift? A key? A curse? They’re a game, kid. Rules are shifting, and someone moved the goalposts when no one was looking.”

“What happens if I find them all?”

He grins again. “Ask the vole. She keeps score. But if you win—if anyone wins—I suspect the world grows ears where it didn’t have ears before.”

Then, as you frown, trying to parse that, he’s already trotting off.

“Oh—and if you see a skunk with a compass and a grudge? Tell him I still owe him lunch.”

You watch him disappear into the twilight.

And somewhere behind your ribs, laughter lingers.