The Field Guide to the Weird

THE FIELD GUIDE TO THE WEIRD

(A Survival Manual for Kids)

By Charles V. Sasser Jr.

PART 1: THE HABITAT (Know Your Enemy)

SUBJECT A: THE OSTRICH (Dad)

• Threat Level: Low (unless you try to talk about feelings).

• Special Ability: Aggressive Normalcy. Can talk about the weather during a literal house fire.

• Signature Move: The "Vacuum of Silence" (turning on the vacuum cleaner when someone starts crying).

SUBJECT B: THE HURRICANE (Charlotte)

• Threat Level: Critical.

• Special Ability: The Sonic Boom. Can slam a door so hard it rattles your teeth in the next room.

• Current Status: Radioactive.

SUBJECT C: THE GHOST (Mom)

• Threat Level: Zero.

• Special Ability: Phasing. Can walk through a room without anyone noticing she was there.

• Weakness: The Light.

SUBJECT D: THE MOSQUITO (David)

• Threat Level: High Frequency.

• Special Ability: Vibrating until he gets attention.

SUBJECT E: THE WARDEN (Susan)

• Threat Level: Medium.

• Special Ability: The Citation. Writes down every rule broken in a notebook.

SUBJECT F: THE OBSERVER (Me/Buzz)

• Threat Level: Internal only.

• Special Ability: The Scan. Noticing that the spoons are crooked from 50 feet away.

• Nemesis: The Beast.

Chapter 1: The Beast Beneath the Carpet

Field Log: Day 4,382Habitat Status: UnstableThreat: The Beast (Lumpus Denialus)

Most families have a pet. We have a Monster.

It lives in the living room. Specifically, it lives under the orange-and-brown rug that Dad bought at a garage sale in 2018.

At first, the Monster was small. A baby. Just a little bump that you could barely feel with your toe. That was back when Mom first started closing her bedroom door. We called the bump "Mom's Headache."

But Monsters eat. And our Monster eats Silence.

Every time Dad changed the subject? Gulp. The Monster grew an inch. Every time Charlotte came home smelling like burnt rope and nobody said anything? Chomp. The Monster grew claws.

Now, the thing under the rug is the size of a hippopotamus.

I am the only one who acknowledges it anymore.

"Watch your step," Dad said this morning, lifting his leg high in the air to step over the three-foot mound in the center of the room. He balanced his coffee perfectly. "Cloudy today. Cumulonimbus, I suspect."

Dad loves weather. He can name every cloud type and predict storms three days out. But he can't see the Monster right in front of him—or maybe he just won't.

I stood at the edge of the Rug. I swear I saw the fabric breathe. In. Out.

Grrrrrrrrrr.

"Did you hear that?" I asked. I was clutching my backpack straps so hard my knuckles were white.

"Hear what?" Dad asked. He was fluffing a pillow now, focused and deliberate. "I hear the furnace kicking on. Efficient system, that furnace."

Dad's eyes didn't look at me. They looked through me, focusing on the wall behind my head. If he looked at me, he might see that I was shaking. And if he saw I was shaking, he'd have to ask why. And Dad can't ask "Why" anymore. "Why" leads to answers nobody wants to say out loud.

"It's moving," I whispered. "Dad, the Rug is moving."

Dad paused. For a second—just a micro-second—the fluffing stopped. His hands froze on the pillow. The smile slipped off his face, revealing something gray and tired underneath. He knew.

Then he blinked. The shutter came down.

"Drafts," Dad declared, his voice a little too bright. "Old house. Drafty floorboards. Who wants toast?"

He walked into the kitchen, whistling. But the whistle was thin. It sounded like air leaking out of a tire.

I looked at the Monster one more time. Then I walked out the front door for school, careful to leave it unlocked behind me—just in case Mom decided to come out of her room today.

I looked at the Rug. One day, the Beast whispered in my head, I am going to get too big. And I am going to eat this whole house.

My name is Buzz. I am twelve years old. And I am the only one who knows that we are living on top of a volcano.

Chapter 2: The Cereal Protocol

Field Log: Day 4,382 (07:00 Hours). Location: The Feeding Trough (Kitchen). Subject: The Ostrich (Dad). Hazards: Flying batter, sticky syrup, aggressive cheerfulness. Mission: Consume nutrients without touching anything sticky.

Mornings in my house are not peaceful. There are no birds chirping. There is no soft sunlight filtering through the curtains. Mornings are a combat sport.

I entered the kitchen at 07:00 exactly.

The Ostrich (Dad) was already there. He was wearing an apron that said "GRILL SERGEANT." He was vibrating with energy. This is what Dad does when things are bad. He gets louder. He gets busier. He fills up all the empty spaces so nobody can ask questions.

"Good morning, troops!" Dad yelled. "Who is ready for a Power Breakfast?"

I looked at the table. One chair was empty. Mom's chair.

It was a Cloudy Day in the Master Bedroom. Mom wasn't coming down. The Beast (in the living room) knew this. I could feel the heat radiating from the rug all the way into the kitchen. The Beast loves an empty chair. An empty chair tastes like abandonment.

"Where's Mom?" Subject S (Susan) asked. She was already sitting at the table, fully dressed, reviewing her homework with a red pen. Susan pretends everything is normal. That is her survival strategy.

Dad didn't look at the empty chair. The Ostrich engaged Deflector Shields.

"Mom is... recharging!" Dad announced. "She is having a Spa Day. In her room. With the lights off. Now, who wants Happy Pancakes?"

He poured batter onto the griddle. He tried to make them into smiley faces. They looked more like screaming ghosts.

"I cannot eat a face," I said. "It feels personal."

"Nonsense!" Dad flipped a screamer onto my plate.

I pushed the plate away. Not because I wanted to hurt his feelings. But because some mornings, you have to choose yourself. I initiated The Cereal Protocol.

1. The Bowl Inspection: Check for cracks. (Status: Clean).

2. The Pour: Cereal goes in first. Level it flat.

3. The Milk: Milk must be poured down the side of the bowl.

Why do I do this? Leo asked me once. He said, "Buzz, it's just cornflakes." He doesn't understand. If I pour the milk perfectly, the world is ordered. If the world is ordered, the bad things can't get in. It's a spell. If I eat this cereal in ten even bites, Mom will come out of her room today.

I took a bite. One. I looked at the empty chair. Two. Please come downstairs. Three. Please be Mom again.

"Dad," I whispered. "He's dripping."

Dad turned around. He saw David, who was covered in syrup.

"Creativity!" Dad exclaimed. But I saw his hand twitch. He wanted to yell. He wanted to scream, "Why is everything in this house sticky and broken?" But he didn't. He couldn't let the cracks show.

"It's washable!" Dad said, his voice going an octave higher. "Everything is washable! Everything is fine!"

He aggressively flipped another pancake. Splat.

The air felt thick with forced cheerfulness. It settled in my chest, heavy and wrong. Dad's smile stretched too wide, like a mask that didn't quite fit.

I grabbed my backpack. I ran for the door. I had to get out. If I stayed, I might start screaming, and in this house, screaming would make everything worse. Someone had to hold it together, and it wasn't going to be them.

Interlude A: The Taste of Lies

Subject: Barnaby (The Good Boy). Current Location: Kitchen Floor (The crumb zone). Status: Hungry and Confused.

The morning smells like sugar and stress.

The Tall Man (Dad) is cooking. He is making the Round Discs. I love the Round Discs. They taste like happiness.

But the air smells wrong. Dogs smell the truth. Humans smell what they want to smell. The Tall Man smells like Lemon Polish and Sour Sweat. The Sour Sweat means he is scared. He is smiling with his teeth, but his smell is screaming.

Splat.

A piece of the Round Disc falls on the floor.

The Loud Boy (David) dropped it. The Loud Boy is sticky. He smells like a fruit explosion.

I dive for the food. Gulp. It is delicious. But as I chew, I look at the Tall Man. He is laughing too loud. Ha. Ha. Ha. It hurts my ears.

I trot into the Living Room to digest.

The Thing (The Beast) is awake.

The humans call it "The Rug." They walk on it. They vacuum it. I know what it is. It is a Sleeping Bear that never wakes up, but always breathes.

Hhhhhhh-whoosh.

The Thing smells like old thunder. I walk past it carefully. I keep my tail tucked.

Growl.

The Rug ripples. Just a little. It snaps a thread at my ankle.

I yelp. Yip!

I run to the window. I look outside. The squirrels are there. The squirrels are normal. They do not growl.

I wish I could go with the squirrels. But I have to stay. The Quiet Boy (Buzz) needs me. He smells like salt water and dry soap. He is the only one who doesn't smell like a lie.

Chapter 3: The Yellow Tube of Doom

Field Log: Day 4,382 (07:45 Hours)

Location: Mobile Containment Unit #44 (The School Bus)

Hazards: Low Oxygen, High Volume, Flying Elbows.

Mission: Do not suffocate. Do not scream.

My dad calls the school bus "The Chariot of Education." He says it is a symbol of American freedom.

My dad is wrong. The school bus is a yellow metal tube designed by an evil scientist to test how many children can fit inside a sardine can before they explode.

I sat in Seat 12. Subject D (David) was sitting next to me.

David does not sit like a human boy. He sits like a starfish.

• Left Arm: Jammed into my ribs.

• Right Arm: Poking the kid in the aisle.

"Move," I whispered. I was pressed against the cold glass of the window. The window is my lifeline. As long as I can see the sky, the walls aren't crushing me. Theoretically.

"I can't move," David said. He was trying to peel a sticker off the seat in front of us. "Gravity, Buzz. It's pulling me onto you."

"That's not how physics works," I said. My chest started to feel tight.

From the seat behind us, Subject S (Susan) leaned forward.

"Buzz," she hissed. "You are breathing too loud. I can hear the air going in and out. It's disturbing the peace."

"I'm hyperventilating," I whispered. "There is no air in here. The windows are sealed. We are in a submarine and we are sinking."

Susan made a checkmark on her paper. "Infraction #1: Being Dramatic in Public."

The bus driver hit the brakes. SCREECH.

The bus stopped. We weren't at school. We were stuck in traffic.

SYSTEM ALERT: TRAPPED.

My brain sounded the alarm. Red alert. The tube is not moving. The doors are locked. The air is running out.

I closed my eyes. I initiated Emergency Protocol: The Eject Button.

• Step 1: I visualized a red button on the dashboard.

• Step 2: I visualized pressing it.

• Step 3: I imagined the roof of the bus popping off.

"Buzz!" Susan snapped. "You're doing the Face again. Tyler is looking at you."

I opened my eyes. Tyler, the coolest kid in the 7th Grade, was eating a bag of chips. He looked at me. He looked at David's elbow in my ribs.

"You good, man?" Tyler asked.

"I am maximizing my oxygen intake," I lied.

"Cool," Tyler said. He went back to his chips.

The traffic cleared. The bus lurched forward. I survived. I didn't eject. I didn't scream. But I did tap the window glass four times.

Tap-tap-tap-tap.

"Weirdo," David muttered.

"I'm a survivor," I whispered to the glass.

Chapter 4: The Aluminum Jungle

Field Log: Day 4,382 (08:05 Hours)

Location: The Hallway (Sector 4). Hazards: Slamming metal, airborne pheromones, The crush of bodies. Mission: Reach Locker 402 without making physical contact.

Getting off the bus is only the first hurdle. The real danger is The Hallway.

My Dad says, "School is a temple of knowledge." My Dad has not been to a middle school since 1988.

Middle School is not a temple. It is a cattle chute.

The bell rang. BRRRR-ING.

That is the signal. Six hundred kids flooded into the corridor at once. The noise level jumped from "Quiet" to "Jet Engine" in three seconds.

I pulled my backpack straps tight. I engaged Protocol: The Ghost.

• Rule 1: Eyes down. Look at the floor tiles.

• Rule 2: Hug the wall. The wall is safe. The center is chaos.

• Rule 3: Do not stop. If you stop, you die (or get trampled by an 8th grader).

I shuffled along the wall. My shoulder brushed against the cold cinder blocks. Scrape. Scrape.

"Move it, nerd!" someone yelled. A heavy backpack slammed into my ribs.

I didn't look up. I just counted my steps. One, two, three. One, two, three.

I reached my destination: Locker 402.

Locker 402 is my nemesis. It is a thin, dented metal box that hates me. I gripped the dial. This is a high-pressure situation. You have exactly four minutes to open the vault.

Right to 24. Left to 8. Right to 16.

I pulled the handle. Clank. Locked.

System Failure.

My heart started to beat faster. Thump-thump-thump. The hallway was shrinking. The kids were yelling.

"Hey, Buzz."

I froze. It was Subject L (Leo).

Leo leaned against the locker next to mine. He was holding a bag of Cheetos. It was 8:00 AM.

"You missed the combo," Leo said. "You went past 16."

"I know," I whispered. "My fingers slipped."

"Here," Leo said. He kicked my locker. BANG.

The door popped open.

"Percussive maintenance," Leo grinned. He offered me a Cheeto. An orange, dusty Cheeto.

I looked at his fingers. They were covered in orange dust. He was about to touch his math book with those fingers.

"No thanks," I said, recoiling. "I have... gum."

"Suit yourself." Leo shoved the bag into his pocket. "Did you hear about Kyle? He threw up in the water fountain."

Alert. Contamination.

My brain flashed an image of the water fountain. Germs. Bacteria. Plague.

"Which fountain?" I asked urgently. "The one by the gym or the one by the office?"

"Gym," Leo said.

"Okay," I muttered. "Sector 7 is quarantined. Do not hydrate in Sector 7."

"You're doing the thing," Leo noted.

"What thing?"

"The 'Planning a War' face. You look like you're trying to diffuse a bomb."

"I am," I said, grabbing my math binder. "This whole building is a bomb."

Chapter 5: The Teacher Who Smelled Fear

Field Log: Day 4,382 (10:15 Hours) Location: The Academy of Doom (Room 302). Subject: Mrs. Gable (The Hawk). Hazards: Silence, Long Division, The Wobbly Chair.

Room 302 was silent. Deadly silent.

Mrs. Gable was writing math problems on the whiteboard. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.

I sat at my desk. I was trying to sit still, but my brain was vibrating. The Morning Chaos was still buzzing inside me. I needed to release the pressure. I needed to tap.

I tapped my pencil on the desk. Tap-tap-tap. (Three times. Safe). It wasn't enough. Tap-tap-tap.

"Buzz?"

Mrs. Gable turned around slowly. "Are you drumming?"

"No, ma'am," I whispered. "I am... organizing the sound waves."

"Buzz," she said softly. She walked to my desk. "You've been doing this all week. And the rocking. And the counting. Is everything okay at home?"

RED ALERT. The Forbidden Question.

If I said "Yes," I was a liar. If I told her about the Rug Monster, they might send the Government Agents.

"I just like math," I lied.

Mrs. Gable studied my face. Her eyes looked tired, like she'd heard that answer before. "I'm going to call your father," she said.

Time Jump: 14:00 Hours (The Conference)

My Dad walked into the classroom. He looked nervous. His shoulders were hunched, and he kept glancing at the door like he wanted to bolt.

"Mr. Sasser," Mrs. Gable said. "I'm worried about Buzz. He has rituals. He taps things. He seems... overwhelmed."

There it was. The Truth. It was sitting on the teacher's desk.

Dad looked at the Truth. He didn't like it. So he looked at the chair instead.

"You know," Dad said, shifting his weight. "This chair is structurally unsound."

Mrs. Gable blinked. "Excuse me?"

"The squeak," Dad said. "It's a loose washer. Friction creates noise. Noise creates distraction."

"Mr. Sasser," Mrs. Gable said firmly. "We are talking about your son's mental health."

"I can fix it," Dad said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a multi-tool.

He crawled under the chair. He was now literally under the table. He was hiding.

"Dad," I whispered. "Get up."

"Hold on, Buzz," Dad's voice echoed from under the plastic seat. "I almost got it."

Dad popped up a minute later. He was red-faced and smiling.

"There!" Dad slapped the chair. "Good as new. Now that the environment is optimized, Buzz will be fine. Right, Buzz?"

He looked at me with pleading eyes. Please say you're fine.

I knew what answer he needed. The one that would let us leave. The one that would make everything easier for him.

"I'm fine," I said.

"See?" Dad beamed. "Problem solved."

He marched me out of the classroom. He fixed the chair. But he didn't fix me.

Dad wasn't a bad person. He just couldn't handle the big stuff. So he made it small. Small enough to fit under a chair. Small enough to tighten with a wrench.

Chapter 6: The Gymnasium of Sweat

Field Log: Day 4,383 (13:00 Hours)

Location: The Arena (Gymnasium). Hazards: Screeching sneakers, aggressive whistles, flying projectiles. Mission: Remain invisible while wearing neon shorts.

If the Library is heaven, the Gym is the other place.

It smells like rubber, old socks, and humidity. It echoes. If you drop a pin in the gym, it sounds like a gunshot.

Coach Miller loves his whistle. TWEEEEET!

"Listen up, maggots!" Coach Miller yelled. "Today is Dodgeball! The sport of kings!"

Dodgeball is not the sport of kings. It is the sport of predators. It is a game where the strong throw rubber balls at the weak.

I stood in the back row. I was wearing the mandatory gym uniform: a gray t-shirt that was too big and neon orange shorts that were too short. I looked like a traffic cone.

"Pick teams!" Coach yelled.

Subject L (Leo) was a captain.

"I pick Tyler!" Leo yelled.

I engaged Protocol: The Chameleon.

• Slouch shoulders.

• Stand behind the tallest kid.

• Look at the floor.

I was picked last. This is standard operating procedure.

The game started. TWEEET!

Chaos. Rubber balls flew through the air like meteors. Thwack. Boing. Oof.

I ran to the back wall. This is the Safe Zone.

I counted the balls. Two on the left. Three on the right.

"Buzz! Move!" Leo screamed.

I looked up. A red ball was hurtling toward my face. It was moving in slow motion. My brain calculated the trajectory:

• Velocity: High.

• Impact Zone: Nose.

• Evasive Maneuver: Duck.

I ducked. WHOOSH. The ball hit the mat behind me with a thunderous WHACK.

"You're out!" a kid yelled.

"It didn't hit me!" I said.

"It hit your aura!" the kid argued.

I didn't fight it. Being "Out" is the goal. If you are Out, you get to sit on the bench. The bench is safe.

I walked to the sidelines. I sat down. I tapped the bench three times. Safe. Safe. Safe.

I watched the rest of the battle. It was a perfect metaphor for my life. Everyone running around, screaming, throwing things, trying not to get hit.

Dad's the guy who thinks if he stays still enough, no one will notice he's checked out. Mom's the one who got hit so many times she just stopped getting up. And me? I'm the kid who figured out that the bench is better than the battlefield.

Chapter 7: The Secret Agent in the Mess Hall

Field Log: Day 4,386 (12:15 Hours) Location: The Cafeteria (The Mess Hall). Hazards: Flying tater tots, mystery meat. Mission: Operation Blend In.

The School Cafeteria is a tactical survival zone. It smells like pizza that has been boiled in gym socks.

For a Covert Operative like me, one wrong move and my cover is blown. If people realize I am "The Weird Kid," the mission fails.

I marched to my table in the back corner. I call it Switzerland.

I sat down. I unpacked my lunch. I engaged PROTOCOL: SANDWICH EXTRACTION.

1. Deploy Napkin.

2. Unwrap Sandwich (Do not touch the bread!).

3. Place Sandwich exactly in the center.

4. Eat the crust first.

5. Chew exactly ten times per side.

I was on Step 4 when a tray slammed down next to me. CLANG.

My sandwich slid off the napkin. It hit the table. Contamination detected.

I looked up. It was Subject L (Leo).

Leo is a rogue agent. He has dirt on his knees and never uses a napkin.

"Hey Buzz," Leo said. "You gonna eat that?"

"It touched the table," I whispered. "It's dead."

"It's fine," Leo said. He grabbed my sandwich. He ate the part that touched the table.

I almost passed out.

"So," Leo said, chewing loud enough to register on a seismograph. "Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"The counting thing," Leo said. "You totally count. Chew-chew-chew. Then you switch sides. You look like a robot."

My face got hot. Hotter than the Beast under the rug.

"I... I'm just enjoying the texture," I lied.

"And the walking thing," Leo continued. "You never step on the cracks. Yesterday you did a hop-skip just to miss one."

I stared at him. I thought I was a Ninja. I thought I was invisible.

"Is it obvious?" I asked. My voice was very small.

"Yeah," Leo said. "But nobody cares, Buzz. Everyone is weird. Sarah eats glue. Mike smells his own armpits. You count chews. Whatever."

He pushed his bag of chips toward me. "Want a chip? I didn't touch them."

I looked at the chips. I looked at Leo. He wasn't scared of my weirdness.

I took a chip.

"Thanks," I said.

I put it in my mouth. I chewed it on the right side.

"One, two, three..." Leo counted out loud, grinning.

I stopped chewing. Then I smiled. "Shut up, Leo."

Chapter 8: The Failed Escape

Field Log: Day 4,388 (18:00 Hours)

Location: The Normal Zone (Leo's House). Mission: Operation Sleepover. Objective: Do not think about The Beast.

Most kids love sleepovers. For me, a sleepover is an Unauthorized Absence.

If I am not at my house, who is checking the locks? Who is tapping the table to keep the sky up?

"You okay, man?" Leo asked.

We were in Leo's bedroom. It was disturbing. The air in Leo's house smelled like laundry detergent and stability.

We went downstairs for dinner. The Control Group (Leo's Parents) were in the kitchen.

"Hi boys!" Leo's mom said. She was smiling. A real smile. Not a "Dad-Ostrich" smile. "Who wants pizza?"

"I do!" Leo said.

"How was your day, honey?" Leo's dad asked.

I froze. I waited for the tension. I waited for the explosion.

"It was okay," Leo said. "I got a B on my math test."

"Good job," his dad said.

That was it. No explosion. No silence. No Beast.

It was terrifying. I ate my pizza in small, counted bites. Why is it so quiet? Why aren't they worried? Something is wrong.

Time Jump: 23:00 Hours (The Long Dark)

Leo was asleep. I was wide awake.

My brain started to project images onto the ceiling:

• Image 1: Mom drowns in sadness because I didn't fix her water spill.

• Image 2: David sets the garage on fire.

• Image 3: The Beast notices the Watchman (Me) is gone. It grows ten feet tall and eats the sofa.

My chest got tight. The "Weirdness" was bubbling up. I abandoned them.

I grabbed my phone. I went to the bathroom. I sat in the empty bathtub (the safest place in any house). I dialed the number.

"Hello?" Dad's voice.

"Dad," I whispered. "It's me."

"Buzz? Is everything okay?"

"No," I said. "I just... I forgot my... special pillow."

"You have your pillow," Dad said. "I saw you pack it."

"It's the wrong pillow," I lied. "The ergonomics are incorrect."

There was a pause. Dad knew. The Ostrich knew I was panicking.

"You know," Dad said, his voice changing. "It's actually really loud here. The refrigerator is humming at a very strange frequency. I could use your help identifying it."

He was giving me an out.

"I can be there in ten minutes," I said. "To inspect the fridge."

"Roger that," Dad said. "Operation Extraction is a go."

Chapter 9: Operation Grocery Store

Field Log: Day 4,389 (16:30 Hours)

Location: The Food Maze (Supermarket). Hazards: Fluorescent hum, freezing temperatures. Mission: Acquire sustenance. Maintain cover.

The Grocery Store is designed to make people crazy. The lights buzz. The floor is too shiny.

The Ostrich (Dad) treats it like a hunting expedition.

"Okay, Squad," Dad announced. "We divide and conquer."

Subject D (David) was hanging off the front of the cart like a pirate. "Mush!" David yelled. "Faster, Dad!"

I pulled my hoodie up. This is my Turtle Shell. If I pull the strings tight enough, the world gets smaller. More manageable.

We entered the Produce Section.

"Look at these melons," Dad said, tapping one with his knuckle. "Solid. Good acoustics."

David grabbed a cucumber. "It's a sword!" he screamed. "En Garde!"

He lunged at a stack of apples.

I felt the panic rising. Not again. "Dad," I whispered. "David is fencing."

Dad looked up. He saw David swinging the cucumber. He saw a Lady with a Purse Dog staring at us.

The Ostrich Protocol engaged.

"This cantaloupe is from Peru," Dad said loudly to no one. "Fascinating logistics."

He walked away. He actually walked away from David. He walked away from the cucumber sword fight and pushed the cart toward the deli counter, pretending he was a solo shopper named Steve who had never seen this child before in his life.

"Dad!" I hissed. "You forgot David!"

"I'm browsing cheese," Dad said.

CRASH.

It sounded like a thunderclap.

David had lost the sword fight. He had fallen backward into a display tower of Canned Peas. Hundreds of cans rolled across the shiny floor. Rumble-rumble-clank.

Everyone looked at David. Then, everyone looked at Dad.

Dad held up a block of cheddar cheese, examining the label like it contained the secrets of the universe.

"Terrible parenting these days," Dad muttered, shaking his head at his own son. "Just terrible."

And he turned the corner into Aisle 6.

My jaw dropped. He disavowed us.

Susan stepped up. The Warden never flees.

"We will pay for the damages!" Susan announced to the Manager. "My brother is a menace! Take him away!"

I stood there, pulling my hoodie strings tighter and tighter until the world disappeared.

Interlude B: The Empty Cave

Subject: Barnaby. Current Location: The Hallway. Status: Abandoned.

The Pack has left. They went to the Food Hunting Ground.

I am alone. The house is very quiet.

I walk into the Living Room.

The Thing is huge today. Since the Pack left, it has stretched out. The orange bumps are taller. It looks like a mountain range made of carpet.

I stand at the edge of the kitchen linoleum (Safety Zone). I bark at it.

Woof.

The Thing does not care. It releases a puff of gray dust.

I sneeze. Choo! The dust smells like Sadness.

I trot up the stairs to check on The Soft Lady (Mom). She is the only one home. She is in the Tower Room.

I scratch at the door. Scritch-scratch.

"Go away, Barnaby," she whispers from inside.

She sounds like she is underwater.

I whine. I want to tell her that there is a Mountain in the living room and it is getting bigger.

She does not open the door.

I go back downstairs. I patrol the perimeter. Kitchen: Clear. Dining Room: Clear. Living Room: Compromised.

I sit on the doormat and watch the front door. I wait for the sound of the Van.

The Beast pulses. Thump-thump.

I lick my paw. I am a brave dog. But I do not like this house when the lights are off.

Chapter 10: The Backyard Cold War

Field Log: Day 4,387 (09:00 Hours). Location: The Perimeter (The Backyard). Subject: The Ostrich (Dad). Enemy: Mr. Peterson (The Neighbor).

While The Beast was growing huge in our living room, Dad was fighting a different war.

His enemy was Mr. Peterson.

Mr. Peterson lives next door. He is a nice man who wears sweaters. But to Dad, Mr. Peterson is a War Criminal.

The crime? Leaves.

"Look at this," Dad whispered. We were standing by the back window. "Three more leaves. He's doing it on purpose, Buzz. It's a strategic assault on my pH balance."

"It's wind, Dad," I said.

"It's negligence!" Dad hissed.

Dad walked to the fence. He started raking the three leaves. Scrape. Scrape.

Mr. Peterson came out of his house.

"Morning, Charles!" Mr. Peterson called out. "Beautiful day! Hey, I noticed Charlotte's hair is green. Looks... fun."

RED ALERT.

Mr. Peterson had mentioned the Real Problem.

Dad's smile twitched.

"Green?" Dad laughed. A manic laugh. "Oh, no, Bill. It's an optical illusion! Refraction! Science is wild, isn't it?"

"It looked pretty green, Charles," Mr. Peterson said. "Is everything okay over there? I heard some yelling last night."

Dad gripped the rake handle so tight his knuckles turned white.

"You know what's not okay?" Dad said suddenly, pointing at the ground. "This fescue. It's looking dormant. I have to aerate! I have to aerate immediately!"

Dad spun around. He fired up the leaf blower. VRRRROOOOOOM.

The noise drowned out everything. It drowned out Mr. Peterson. It drowned out the truth.

He was fighting the leaves because he couldn't fight whatever was happening with Charlotte. And the leaves were easier targets than real problems.

Chapter 11: The Library Sanctuary

Chapter 10.5: The Rescue Mission

Field Log: Day 4,387 (12:15 Hours)

Location: The School Cafeteria (Danger Zone Alpha).

Subject: Thomas Riley.

Mission Status: Unplanned.

I wasn't supposed to be a hero that day.

Thomas Riley sat three tables away. He was new. He'd been at Lincoln Middle for exactly two weeks. He had brown hair that stuck up in the back and a backpack covered in NASA patches.

Thomas was a Space Kid. I recognized him immediately. Space Kids are obsessed with rockets, planets, and the Mars Rover. They know things that don't help with dodgeball. They are targets.

Brandon Kowalski and his crew were circling.

"Hey, NASA," Brandon called out. "Does your rocket ship run on dork fuel?"

Thomas kept eating his sandwich. His ears turned red.

"I'm talking to you, Space Nerd."

Brandon grabbed Thomas's lunch tray. He held it up high, out of reach.

The cafeteria went quiet. Everyone was watching. This was the part where someone was supposed to intervene. A teacher. A lunch monitor. Anyone.

No one moved.

I looked at my table. I had three chicken nuggets left. If I got involved, Brandon might target me next. I could become collateral damage.

Stay small. Stay invisible. Survive.

But I looked at Thomas's face. He was staring at the table. His hands were shaking. He was trying not to cry.

I knew that shake. I knew what it felt like to be the one everyone watched while no one helped.

Brandon reminded me of The Beast—loud and scary, but only when no one was watching. Maybe if I could stand up to Brandon, I could survive what was waiting at home.

My heart was pounding. You don't have to do this. This isn't your problem.

But my legs stood up anyway.

I walked over to Brandon's table. My mouth was dry. My hands were sweating.

"Give it back," I said.

My voice came out quieter than I wanted. Almost a whisper.

Brandon turned. He looked at me like I was a fly that had landed on his sandwich.

"What did you say, Buzz the Freak?"

"Give. It. Back."

Brandon laughed. "Or what? You gonna count me to death? Gonna tap your little fingers and make me disappear?"

The cafeteria was staring now. At me. At Thomas. At Brandon holding the tray like a trophy.

I didn't have a plan. I didn't have muscles or a clever comeback. I just had the truth.

"You're right," I said. "I do count things. And I noticed something."

Brandon's smile faltered. "What?"

"You only pick on people when Mrs. Henderson isn't looking. You waited until she left for the teachers' lounge. That was seven minutes ago. She'll be back in three minutes. She always comes back after ten."

Brandon glanced toward the door.

"And," I continued, my voice getting steadier, "Principal Davison walks through the cafeteria at 12:20 every day. That's in four minutes. He doesn't like bullies. He suspended Mason Torres for two weeks last month."

I looked Brandon in the eye.

"So you can keep the tray," I said. "But in four minutes, you're going to have to explain to Principal Davison why you're holding it."

Brandon's face went red. He looked at the clock. He looked at the door.

He shoved the tray back at Thomas. Hard. The chocolate milk tipped over and spilled across the table.

"Whatever," Brandon muttered. "He's not worth it."

Brandon and his crew walked away.

I stood there. My legs felt like jelly. My hands were shaking worse than Thomas's had been.

Thomas looked up at me.

"You didn't have to do that," he said quietly.

"I know," I said.

"Thanks."

I nodded. I sat down across from him. We didn't say anything else. We just ate lunch.

At 12:20, Principal Davison walked through the cafeteria. Right on schedule.

________________________________________

The next day, Thomas sat at my table.

"I brought an extra juice box," he said. "In case you wanted one."

It was grape. I didn't even like grape. But I took it anyway.

"Did you know," Thomas said, "that the Mars Rover has been on Mars for ten years, and it was only supposed to last ninety days?"

"I didn't know that," I said.

"It keeps going even though it's broken. It just... keeps going."

He looked at me when he said it. Like he wasn't just talking about the Rover.

I opened the juice box. It tasted terrible. But I drank it anyway.

Sometimes, being strong doesn't mean being the biggest or the loudest. Sometimes it just means standing up when your legs are shaking. Sometimes it means knowing when the principal makes his rounds.

And sometimes, it means drinking a gross juice box because someone saw you when you needed to be seen.

Field Log: Day 4,388 (12:45 Hours)

Location: The Sanctuary (School Library). Status: Safe. Ally: Mrs. H (The Librarian).

The Library is the only place at school where "Quiet" is the law. In the hallway, silence makes you a target. In the library, silence makes you a citizen.

I walked in during my lunch break. I don't eat in the cafeteria anymore. Too loud. Too many questions I don't want to answer. So I eat a granola bar in the biography section instead.

Mrs. H was at her desk. She is old, she smells like vanilla, and she wears glasses on a chain.

"Hello, Buzz," she whispered.

"Hello, Mrs. H," I whispered back.

I walked to the back corner. Beanbag chairs. Peace.

I sat down. I pulled out my "Field Guide" notebook. I started drawing a picture of The Beast.

Today, the Beast had spikes. And it was drooling. I drew the drool carefully.

"That's a scary monster," a voice said.

I jumped. Mrs. H was standing right there. Librarians have +10 Stealth.

I slammed the notebook shut. "It's... it's for art class."

Mrs. H sat down on the beanbag next to me.

"It looks heavy," she said.

"What does?"

"The monster," she said. "Carrying that around in your head. It looks heavy."

I looked at her. She wasn't smiling. She wasn't frowning. She was just looking.

"It is heavy," I whispered.

"Does it have a name?" she asked.

"The Beast," I said. "It lives under the rug."

Mrs. H nodded. She didn't say, 'That's imaginary.' She didn't say, 'Have you tried not thinking about it?'

"I have a Beast too," she said. "Mine lives in the laundry room. Sometimes I throw towels at it."

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a butterscotch candy. She handed it to me.

"If the Beast gets too loud," Mrs. H said, "you come in here. The books dampen the noise. It's physics."

She stood up and walked away.

I unwrapped the candy. I put it in my mouth. It tasted like sugar and safety.

I opened my notebook again. I drew a cage around the Beast. Just a small one. It didn't fix anything. But for ten minutes, I wasn't alone with the monster.

Chapter 12: The Green-Haired Hurricane

Field Log: Day 4,389 (16:00 Hours)

Subject: The Hurricane (Charlotte)

Current Status: Radioactive.

Warning: Do not look directly at the hair.

If my job in this family is to be the Stealth Bomber, my sister Charlotte's job is to be the Fireworks Display.

I was in the kitchen when the front door slammed. BOOM.

The temperature in the house instantly shot up ten degrees.

The Beast stirred under the rug. A puff of hot steam rose from the edges. It knew conflict was coming, the way sharks know when there's blood in the water.

Charlotte stood in the entryway. She looked like she had been tumble-dried with sharp rocks. But the main event was the hair. It was the color of a radioactive swamp.

Also, she was holding a stray cat.

"Dad!" Susan screamed. "Charlotte is toxic waste and she brought a demon!"

Enter The Ostrich (Dad).

He stopped. He looked at Charlotte. He looked at the hair (Neon Green). He looked at the cat (Hissing).

This was it. The moment of truth.

Dad squinted at Charlotte's head.

"The lighting in here is terrible," Dad announced. "It's casting a very strange... green tint on everything. Must be the fluorescent bulbs."

Charlotte's mouth fell open. "It's not the lights, Dad! It's hair dye! It's called 'Electric Swamp'!"

"And we have a draft," Dad said, stepping back as the cat swiped at him. "I felt a sharp breeze. I'd better check the circuit breaker."

He walked out. The door clicked shut. He didn't see her.

The Beast in the living room grew an inch taller. The heat coming off the rug was now stifling.

"Fine!" Charlotte yelled at the closed door. "I'm keeping Lucifer! And he hates you!"

She stomped up the stairs.

I went to Charlotte's room later.

"Dad didn't notice," I said.

"He noticed," Charlotte said, crying behind sunglasses. "He just pretended he didn't. That's worse."

I didn't know what to say. She was right. Dad had seen the hair. He'd chosen to look away because that was easier than dealing with whatever Charlotte was trying to tell him. It wasn't about meanness. Dad just didn't know how to handle things that were hard.

But Charlotte still felt invisible.

Chapter 13: Forced Family Fun Night

Field Log: Day 4,389 (19:30 Hours) Event: Mandatory Family Bonding. Weapon of Choice: Monopoly. Threat Level: DEFCON 1.

After the Green Hair Incident, the house felt like a bomb waiting to go off.

The Ostrich (Dad) decided we needed a "fix."

"Game Night!" Dad announced. "We need laughter! We need capitalism!"

He pulled the dusty Monopoly box from the closet.

This was Dad's thing. When the rug started to buckle, he pulled out games or made pancakes shaped like smiley faces. Like if he smiled hard enough, we'd all forget about the Monster underneath.

Monopoly is the worst game for our family. It is a game about money, rules, and jail. We have issues with all three.

• Dad: The Banker (Sneaking money to people so they won't be sad).

• Susan: The Top Hat (Organizing money by serial number).

• David: The Racecar (Crashing into hotels).

I could already see how this would go. Dad would try too hard. Susan would get upset about the rules. Charlotte would storm off. And somehow, I'd end up feeling responsible for keeping everyone okay.

But I didn't have to fix this. I knew that now. I could just... be there. Play the game. Let whatever happened, happen.

So I picked the dog piece and sat down.

• Charlotte: The Wheelbarrow (Refusing to buy property).

• Mom: The Thimble.

The game started okay. Then Mom landed on "Go To Jail."

"I'll stay here," Mom said. "I like the walls. It feels safe. I'm going to live in the jail."

She put her Thimble in the jail box and refused to roll again.

Then, Charlotte landed on Susan's hotel.

"Pay me," Susan demanded.

"No," Charlotte said. "The game is rigged. The Bank is corrupt. And nobody actually wins."

"Charlotte," Dad warned. "Let's keep it light."

"I'm done," Charlotte said.

THE FLIP.

The board went airborne. Money rained down like confetti. CRASH.

The Beast roared. I felt the floor shake.

We all looked at Dad. Surely, now he would acknowledge the problem.

Dad picked up the empty box.

"Well!" Dad said, his voice cracking. "That was a spirited round! Excellent physics on that flip, Charlotte. Who wants ice cream?"

"I hate you," Charlotte whispered. She stormed out.

"I won!" David yelled, grabbing cash from the floor.

I crawled under the table to retrieve my piece. I tapped the table leg three times. We played the game. We lost. And Dad was serving ice cream while everything fell apart.

Chapter 14: The Ghost in the Tower

Field Log: Day 4,390 (15:30 Hours)

Location: Zone Zero (The Master Bedroom). Subject: The Ghost (Mom). Atmosphere: Heavy Gravity.

Mom lives in the dark now.

Dad says Mom has "Migraines." But I've looked up Migraines in the school library. Migraines last a few hours. Mom's been like this for three years.

I stood outside her door. I needed a permission slip signed for the Field Trip. It was just a piece of paper. But it felt like a test.

If she signs it, she remembers me.

If she doesn't, I am invisible.

I knocked. Tap-tap-tap.

"Mom?"

No answer. Just the hum of the air conditioner.

I opened the door. The air was cold. The curtains were drawn tight, blocking out the sun. It smelled like lavender and stale air—the smell of someone waiting for something to change.

"Who is it?" Her voice sounded thin. Like paper.

"It's Buzz."

Mom sat up. Her hair was matted on one side. She looked at me, but her eyes were hazy. She was looking at a Buzz from three years ago.

"Is it time for school?" she asked.

"School is over, Mom," I said softly.

She blinked. "Oh. Right. I lost track."

She loses track of days. She loses track of meals. She loses track of me.

"I need a signature," I said, holding out the clipboard. "For the museum."

She reached for a pen on the nightstand. Her hand was shaking. She bumped a glass of water.

Clink. SWOOSH.

Water splashed everywhere. It soaked the carpet. It soaked the permission slip.

My heart dropped. The ink was running. The paper was ruined.

"It's okay!" I said quickly. The panic surged up my throat. "I'll fix it! Don't worry!"

I dropped to my knees. I grabbed a towel from the bathroom and started scrubbing the carpet.

Scrub. Scrub. Scrub.

If I clean it up fast enough, she won't feel worse. If she's not sad, she won't retreat back into the pillows. I have to help. I have to make things easier.

"Buzz, stop," Mom said.

I didn't stop. I scrubbed harder. "It's almost dry! Look!"

"Buzz," she whispered.

I looked up. She wasn't looking at the carpet. She was looking at my hands.

"You're a good boy, Buzz," she said. Her voice broke. "You're always so good. You never make a mess."

She laid back down and pulled the duvet up to her chin. She was disappearing again.

"Close the door, honey. My head hurts."

I stood up. I held the wet, ruined permission slip.

"Mom?" I whispered.

"Hmm?"

"I can make dinner tonight. I can make toast."

"That's nice," she mumbled. She was already gone.

I walked out. I had fixed the spill. I had done everything right. But as I closed the door, I realized the truth: You can't be good enough to make someone stay.

Chapter 15: The Human Mosquito

Field Log: Day 4,390 (10:00 Hours)Subject: The Mosquito (David). Threat Level: High. Objective: Do not get stung.

It was Saturday. Dad was washing the van.

David was "helping."

"Dad. Dad. Dad. Look. Dad."

David pointed the hose straight up. Fwoosh. Water rained down on Dad.

The Ostrich Protocol engaged.

Dad didn't yell. Dad looked at the sky.

"Remarkable," Dad said, wiping water from his eyes. "A localized rain shower. Only on this driveway. Must be a micro-climate."

David stopped spraying. He stared at Dad, waiting. He wanted Dad to yell. Yelling is a connection. Talking about micro-climates is not.

"I'm soaking you!" David screamed. "I am the Rain God!"

He aimed the hose at me. He kicked my rock collection. Clatter-crash.

"Why are you like this?" I shouted.

"Because normal is boring!" David screamed. "And you're a freak!"

He ran inside.

I looked at the living room window. The Beast wasn't just a lump anymore. Sharp, jagged spikes were pushing up against the orange fabric.

David wasn't a monster. He was just a mosquito. A mosquito has to bite to prove it's alive. Because if David didn't bite, Dad wouldn't even know he was there.

I started picking up my rocks, one by one.

Chapter 16: The Ostrich and the Smoke Signal

Field Log: Day 4,391 (19:00 Hours)Location: The Garage. Subject: The Ostrich (Dad). Threat Level: CRITICAL.

It was Tuesday night. I was in the garage with Dad. He was teaching me about carburetors. "The carburetor breathes, Buzz," he was saying. "If the mix is wrong, the engine dies."

Then the door flew open. Enter Subject S (Susan) and Subject C (Charlotte).

Susan looked triumphant. She slammed a plastic baggie onto the workbench.

"Look what I found. It was in Charlotte's backpack."

I looked at the baggie. Even I knew what that was. That was the Bad Stuff. Drugs.

The silence in the garage was absolute. The carburetor was forgotten.

Dad froze. He looked at the baggie. Then he looked at Charlotte.

Charlotte stood there, her green hair now fading to a dull olive. She wasn't wearing her sunglasses. Her eyes were red. She wasn't defiant. She looked... small. She was waiting.

Yell at me, her eyes said. Please. Scream at me. Tell me I'm grounded for life. Just prove that you see me.

Dad slowly lowered his wrench. His hand was shaking.

He looked at his daughter. He took a breath. I saw his chest move. He was going to do it. He was going to be the Dad.

But then, the fear took him. The Ostrich looked at the sand.

"You know," Dad said, his voice sounding hollow and distant. "I think the carburetor on this mower is completely shot. We might need to order a new part."

Susan's jaw dropped. "Dad! Look at the table! She's doing drugs!"

"It's going to take three weeks to ship," Dad continued, staring at the mower engine like it held all the answers in the world. He picked up a rag and started wiping grease that wasn't there.

"DAD!" Charlotte screamed. It was a raw, tearing sound. "LOOK AT ME!"

Dad flinched. He gripped the workbench so hard his knuckles turned white. For a second, I thought he might actually turn around. He closed his eyes.

"Buzz," Dad whispered. "Hand me that screwdriver."

Charlotte grabbed the baggie. Tears were running down her face now. Not angry tears. Ugly, hurting tears.

"You don't care," she whispered. Her voice cracked. "I could die, and you'd just talk about the lawn."

She waited one more second. One second for him to drop the tool and grab her.

He didn't move.

She turned and ran out.

I stood there with the screwdriver. My hand felt heavy. I could follow Charlotte. I could stay and help Dad pretend. Or I could just... leave. Walk away from both of them.

I set the screwdriver down on the workbench.

"Dad?" I said.

Dad was spraying WD-40 on a bolt. He sprayed it until the oil overflowed and dripped onto his shoes. He was crying. Silent tears were sliding down his nose and landing on the mower.

But he didn't stop working.

"The mix is wrong," Dad whispered to the machine. "If the mix is wrong, the engine dies."

He wasn't talking about the mower.

The Beast in the living room roared, and this time, it sounded like it was winning.

I backed toward the door. Dad didn't notice.

Interlude C: The Metal Room

Subject: Barnaby. Current Location: The Garage. Status: Leaving.

The air in the house tonight is spicy. It smells like Smoke (from the Girl) and Fear (from the Tall Man).

The Tall Man ran to the Metal Room. I followed him.

The Tall Man is standing by the workbench. He is holding a silver tool. He is shaking.

Humans shake when they are cold. But it is hot in here. He is shaking because he is broken.

I walk over to him. I lean my body against his leg. This is my job. I am the Leaner.

"Hey, buddy," The Tall Man whispers.

He drops the tool. Clang.

He sits down on the concrete floor. He puts his head in his hands.

"I can't fix it," he says to me. "Barnaby, I don't know how to fix it."

I lick his hand. It tastes like WD-40 and salt.

He buries his face in my neck fur. He is wet. His eyes are leaking.

The Tall Man pretends to be the Alpha. But I know. He is just a puppy who lost his mom.

We sit there for a long time. The Beast is scratching at the door on the other side, trying to get in. But for now, the Metal Room is safe.

Chapter 17: The Black Suit

Field Log: Day 4,392 (09:00 Hours)

Subject: The Suit. Hazards: Wool, Polyester, Choking Hazards. Status: Sensory Overload.

Grandad's funeral was in two hours. The Ostrich had issued a decree: "We will look Respectable."

I stood in front of my mirror. The suit was made of 80% Wool and 20% Fire Ants. The tag scratched my neck. Scritch. Scritch.

"I cannot do this," I whispered.

I heard shouting.

Subject C (Charlotte) stepped into the hallway. She was wearing a black dress, but also combat boots, fishnet stockings, and sunglasses.

"You cannot wear that," Dad said.

"It's black," Charlotte said.

"It's not Respectable Black," Dad hissed. "You look like a vampire."

"Grandad didn't even like me," Charlotte said.

Dad's face twitched. "It's about... presenting a united front," he said. "Those boots. They're... distracting. People will talk."

Charlotte laughed. "You care more about the floor than you care about me."

She stomped downstairs.

I followed. We gathered in the living room.

Mom was there too—pale and quiet, but present. She'd come out of her room for Grandad. Dad's grief was apparently bigger than his denial.

I looked at the floor. The Rug was flat.

My heart stopped. Where is the Beast?

I looked up.

It was on the ceiling.

The Beast hadn't left. It had evolved. It was clinging to the ceiling fan like a giant, smoky spider. It stared down at us with glowing yellow eyes.

You think you can leave me here? the Beast seemed to hiss. I am coming with you.

"Buzz, let's go," Susan said. She couldn't see it.

The Beast detached itself. It floated down and followed us to the van. It oozed through the windows.

Dad started the engine. "Okay team. Operation Dignity is a go."

We weren't going to a funeral. We were going to a disaster.

Interlude D: The Roof Rider

Subject: Barnaby. Current Location: The Front Window. Status: Witness.

The Pack is leaving again. But this time, they look different. They are wearing The Dark Fur.

The Quiet Boy (Buzz) looks uncomfortable. He keeps pulling at his neck.

They are walking to the Van.

I am watching from the window. I am barking. "Do not go! The air is bad!"

But they cannot hear me.

Then, I see It.

The Thing.

It is not under the rug anymore.

I watch it slide out the front door. It looks like a shadow, but thick. Like smoke that decided to be a solid object.

It slithers down the sidewalk. It is following them.

The Tall Man gets in the driver's seat. He starts the Van.

The Thing jumps.

It lands on the roof of the Van. Thump.

I see it wrap its smoky tentacles around the luggage rack. It settles in. It is going for a ride.

My fur stands up. I bark loud. WOOF! WOOF! WOOF!

"It is on the roof! Turn around! It is eating the car!"

The Van pulls away. The Thing rides on top, its yellow eyes looking back at me through the rear window. It blinks.

They are taking the Monster with them.

I stop barking. I sit down. The house is empty. The rug is flat.

But I know they are not coming back the same. You cannot drive with a Monster on the roof and not crash.

Chapter 18: The Car Ride of Silence

Field Log: Day 4,392 (10:30 Hours)

Location: The Family Van. Destination: The Funeral Home. Atmosphere: Pressurized.

We were in the van. We were driving to the funeral.

The Beast was on the roof. I could hear its claws scraping against the metal luggage rack. Scritch. Scraaaape.

Inside the van, the air was toxic.

Subject C (Charlotte) was sitting in the way back. She was wearing her sunglasses. She was radiating pure anger. Or maybe it wasn't anger. Maybe it was grief wearing an anger costume because grief was too hard to look at directly.

Subject D (David) was in the middle row with me. He was wearing a clip-on tie. He was trying to unclip it and clip it to his ear. Click. Ouch. Click. Ouch.

"David, stop," Subject S (Susan) hissed.

The Ostrich (Dad) was driving. He was gripping the wheel at 10 and 2.

"Green light," Dad narrated. "Turning signal engaged. Merging left. Smooth merge. Very smooth."

He was narrating the driving because if he stopped talking, he might have to feel something.

Subject M (Mom) was in the passenger seat. She was looking out the window.

"I missed a pole," Mom whispered.

"What, honey?" Dad asked, too loud.

"I was counting them," Mom said. "But we went too fast. I missed one. Now the count is wrong."

I felt a chill go down my spine. I looked at Mom. She was counting poles. I counted steps.

She is like me, I realized. The Ghost is just a scared kid who got old.

Mom didn't make me this way. She was already this way. Maybe we were both just trying to survive the same Monster.

"It's okay, Mom," I said from the back seat. "We can catch it on the way back."

Mom turned around. She looked at me through her black veil.

"Buzz," she said. "Did you lock the front door?"

"Yes," I said. "Three times."

"Good," she sighed. "Good."

We drove on. Dad turned up the radio. It was a commercial for car insurance.

"Are you protected from the unexpected?" the radio voice asked.

Dad turned it up louder. We weren't protected. The unexpected was on the roof, and it was getting heavy.

Chapter 19: The Funeral Fiasco

Interlude E: The Watcher's Warning

Subject: Barnaby. Current Location: The Hallway. Status: Alert. Threat Assessment: Escalating.

I have been watching for many seasons. Through many moons. That is my job. I am The Watcher.

The Pack is sick. I know this because I can smell it.

The Quiet Boy (Buzz) smells like salt and electricity. Like the air before thunder. He is always afraid.

The Tall Man (Dad) smells like oil and old metal. He hides in the Metal Room. He does not come out even when the Pack howls for him.

The Ghost (Mom) barely smells like anything anymore. She is fading. Sometimes I stand by her bed and lick her hand to remind her she is still solid. Still here.

The Loud Boy (David) smells like fire and sugar. He runs in circles. He bites. He is trying to burn himself out so he can finally sleep.

The Girl (Charlotte) smells like smoke. Not good smoke. Bad smoke. The kind that comes from things that should not burn.

The Angry Girl (Susan) smells sharp. Like cleaning chemicals. Like she is trying to scrub something away that will not leave.

I know these smells. I catalog them. I remember them.

But lately, the smells are changing. Getting worse.

________________________________________

Field Log: Morning Patrol (07:00 Hours)

I walk through the house. I am checking. This is my route:

1. The Kitchen. I sniff the floor. There are crumbs. No one cleaned them. The Ghost used to clean every morning. Now the crumbs stay for days.

2. The Hallway. I sniff the carpet. It smells like The Girl's smoke. She is hiding it in her jacket, but I know. I always know.

3. The Stairs. I count them. Thirteen steps. The Quiet Boy counts them too. We are the same.

4. The Ghost's Room. I scratch at the door. Scritch. Scritch. She does not open it. I hear her breathing on the other side. Shallow breaths. She is awake, but she will not come out.

5. The Loud Boy's Room. It smells like chaos. Dirty clothes. Spilled juice. Rage. He is asleep, but his fists are clenched. Even in dreams, he is fighting.

6. The Metal Room. The Tall Man is already there. I hear the clang of tools. Clang. Clang. Clang. He is fixing something that is not broken. This is how he hides.

I return to the living room. The Rug is lumpy again. The thing underneath is growing.

I growl at it. Grrrrrr.

The thing does not move. It knows I cannot stop it. I am just a dog. I do not have hands. I cannot call for help. All I can do is watch.

________________________________________

Field Log: Afternoon Observation (15:30 Hours)

The Quiet Boy comes home from school. He puts his backpack down. He looks at the rug.

"It's bigger," he whispers.

I walk over to him. I press my body against his leg. This is called The Lean. It means: You are not alone. I am here.

He kneels down. He scratches behind my ears.

"You see it too, don't you, Barnaby?" he asks.

Yes, I want to say. I see it. I have always seen it. And I am scared.

But I cannot say this. I am a dog. So I lick his face instead. His tears taste like salt.

He hugs me. He buries his face in my neck fur.

"I don't know how to make it stop," he says.

I don't either. But I stay. I lean harder. I let him hold on.

Because this is my job. I am The Anchor. When the storm comes, I hold them down so they don't blow away.

________________________________________

Field Log: Evening Crisis (19:45 Hours)

Dinnertime. The Pack is sitting at the table.

Except The Ghost. She is not here. She is in her room again.

The Tall Man made something called "spaghetti." It is red and smells like tomatoes. But the noodles are hard. He forgot to cook them long enough.

No one says anything. They chew the hard noodles. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

The Loud Boy spits his out. "This is gross!"

"David, eat your dinner," The Tall Man says. But his voice is far away. He is not really here either.

The Girl is pushing her food around her plate. She is not eating. She looks thin. Too thin. Her bones are starting to show.

The Angry Girl is eating quickly. Mechanically. She is not tasting the food. She is just trying to finish so she can leave.

I sit under the table. I watch their feet.

The Tall Man's feet are bouncing. Tap-tap-tap-tap. He is anxious.

The Girl's feet are tucked under her chair. She is making herself small.

The Loud Boy's feet are kicking. He kicks the table leg. Thump. Thump. Thump.

The Quiet Boy's feet are still. But I can feel him shaking.

The thing under the rug is here too. I can feel it pressing against the floorboards, trying to push up through the table.

It is feeding, I realize. It eats the silence. It eats the fear.

I want to bark. I want to wake them up. But I know they will not listen. They think I am barking at nothing.

Humans cannot see the things that dogs see.

________________________________________

Field Log: Night Watch (23:00 Hours)

The house is dark. The Pack is asleep. Except they are not really asleep.

I hear The Ghost crying in her room. Soft, muffled sounds. She is trying not to wake anyone.

I hear The Loud Boy talking in his sleep. "No! Stop! I didn't mean it!"

I hear The Girl sneaking out her window. I hear the creak of the frame. The soft thud of her feet hitting the grass.

I hear The Tall Man in the Metal Room. Still fixing. Always fixing. It is 11 p.m., and he is still hiding.

I hear The Quiet Boy breathing. One-two-three. One-two-three. He is counting even in his sleep.

I walk to The Quiet Boy's room. I push the door open with my nose.

He is awake. He is staring at the ceiling.

"Hey, Barnaby," he whispers.

I jump onto his bed. This is against the rules, but I do not care anymore. The rules are broken.

I curl up next to him. I put my head on his chest. I listen to his heartbeat. It is fast. Too fast.

"I'm scared," he whispers.

Me too, I want to say.

He wraps his arms around me. "What if it doesn't get better? What if we can't fix it?"

I lick his hand.

I cannot tell him it will be okay. I do not know if it will be okay.

But I can stay. I can be warm. I can be solid.

I am The Proof. The proof that someone loves him. The proof that he is worth staying for.

I close my eyes. I will guard him while he sleeps. I will watch for the thing under the rug.

Because even if I cannot save them, I will not leave them.

That is what good dogs do.

We stay.

Field Log: Day 4,392 (11:00 Hours) Location: The Funeral Home. Mission: Operation Dignity. Threat Level: NUCLEAR.

We sat in the front row. The Danger Zone.

Dad walked up to the podium. He looked small in his black suit. He looked at the crowd. He looked at the casket.

I saw the panic in Dad's eyes. The Ostrich was looking for sand, but there was only carpet. He couldn't talk about death. Death is a feeling. And we don't do feelings.

"My father," Dad began. His voice shook. "Was a man who... who knew the value of good landscaping."

The room went silent. A heavy, awkward silence. The Beast on the ceiling growled.

"He kept his hedges trimmed," Dad continued, sweating. "And his gutters. You could eat off his gutters. He believed in drainage."

I heard a sniffle. Charlotte. She was crying behind her sunglasses.

"And his garage," Dad went on, faster now, trying to outrun the grief. "Everything in its place. A place for everything."

"He never hugged you!" Charlotte blurted out.

Dad froze. "Charlotte, shh."

"He was mean!" Charlotte stood up. She took off her glasses. Her eyes were swollen and red. "He was mean and he never hugged you and now he's dead and you're talking about gutters!"

BOOM.

The Beast dropped from the ceiling. It crashed into the center of the room. The "Normal Family" mask shattered into a million pieces.

Dad looked like he had been punched in the chest. He looked at the casket, then at Charlotte. For a second, I saw something break in him. Something that had been holding for years.

"I know," Dad whispered. The microphone picked it up. I know.

Then, Mom stood up. She looked around, confused, like she'd just woken up from a dream.

"Does anyone else hear banjo music?" Mom asked pleasantly.

Subject D (David) yelled, "I'm bored!" He kicked a flower stand. CRASH. Water spilled all over the minister's shoes.

Susan tried to grab him and tripped over the microphone cord. SCREECH-POP.

I sat there. Frozen. My family was a disaster. We were the freaks. Everyone was staring.

But I also knew: this wasn't about me. Dad's father never hugged him. Mom hears banjo music because something in her brain works differently. David is seven and doesn't understand funerals yet. Charlotte finally said what Dad couldn't.

None of this was my job to fix.

I stood up quietly and walked to the side exit. Just for air. Just for a minute.

And then, I started to laugh.

It wasn't a happy laugh. It was a jagged, painful laugh. It hurt my ribs.

"It's the Rug!" I choked out, tears squeezing out of my eyes. "We tripped over the Rug!"

I laughed because if I didn't laugh, I would scream until my throat bled. I laughed because the Beast had finally eaten us, and we were still here.

Chapter 20: The Day the Rug Died

Field Log: Day 4,393. Location: The Living Room. The Beast: Starving.

The ride home was silent. But it wasn't the heavy silence of secrets. It was the silence of a battlefield after the shooting stops.

We walked into the house.

The Beast was waiting. The rug was stretched so high it looked like a tent.

Dad walked toward the sliding glass door. He reached for the handle. "I'm going to check the—"

"No," I said.

My voice was quiet, but it stopped him.

Dad turned. "Buzz?"

"No," I said. "No garage. No mower. No gutters."

I walked over to the Rug. I stepped onto the Beast. It felt lumpy and unstable.

"It doesn't fit anymore," I said. "The Beast is too big."

Charlotte leaned against the wall. She looked exhausted. "Buzz is right. Everyone saw, Dad. You can't hide it."

Dad looked at the rug. He looked at Mom, who was humming to herself. He looked at his hands—the hands that could fix engines but couldn't fix his family.

Dad sighed. It was a long, rattling sigh. The sound of a machine finally breaking down.

He walked to the recliner and sat down. He didn't turn on the TV. He put his head in his hands.

"I don't know what to do," Dad whispered. "I don't have a tool for this."

"You don't have to fix it," I said. "You just have to look at it."

I pointed at the lump. "Charlotte is in trouble."

Hiss. The Beast shrank an inch.

Dad nodded into his hands. "I know."

"And Mom is sick," I said. "She's not 'recharging.' She's sick."

Hiss. The Beast shrank another foot.

"And I count things because I'm scared all the time. And Susan thinks she's the police. And David is a mosquito."

"I am a mosquito," David agreed softly.

Dad looked up. His eyes were wet. He looked older than I had ever seen him.

"Yeah," Dad said. "We really did ruin that funeral. Did you see the Minister's shoes?"

"They were covered in lily water," Susan giggled nervously.

"And the microphone," Charlotte added. "Screech-pop."

Dad started to chuckle. It was a wet, sad sound.

"We are terrible," Charlotte said, sliding down to sit on the floor.

"We're the worst," David said happily.

Dad looked at us. He didn't offer to make pancakes. He didn't offer a fix. He just sat there in the mess with us.

"So," Dad said. "I don't know how to do this. But... I'm not going to the garage."

I looked down at the Rug.

The Beast was... small. It had shrunk down to the size of a toaster. It wasn't a mountain anymore. It was just a dirty old rug covering a cracked floor.

EPILOGUE: The New Kind of Weird

The waiting room of Dr. Pinsky's office smelled like peppermint tea.

We were all there. Dad was inspecting the door hinges, but he wasn't fixing them. Mom was holding Dad's hand. Her grip was loose, but she was there.

We sat down in the doctor's office.

"We have a... lump," Dad said finally. "Under the rug. And... well... we tripped."

"I see," said the Doctor.

I looked at Charlotte. She wasn't wearing sunglasses. I looked at Mom. She was looking at the window.

We didn't get fixed that day. Charlotte still got suspended two weeks later. Mom still had days where the Cloud came down and she couldn't leave her room. Dad still talked about the weather when he got scared.

But we had a new rule: No Rugs.

If there was a problem, we put it on the table. We stared at it. We hated it. But we didn't cover it up.

"My name is Buzz," I said to the doctor. "And my family struggles."

"Good place to start," the doctor said.

________________________________________

BONUS CHAPTERS

The following chapters take place three months after the family entered therapy. They show how Buzz's tools work in real life—and how healing is messy, ongoing, and worth it.

________________________________________

I took a deep breath. For the first time in a long time, I didn't count it. I just breathed.

BONUS CHAPTER 1: The Perfect Panic

Field Log: Day 4,394 (07:15 Hours)

Location: School Bathroom, Third Stall.

Status: Code Red.

I couldn't breathe.

We were supposed to present our science projects in fifteen minutes. I had built a working model of the solar system. I had practiced my speech seventeen times. I had memorized every word.

But when I walked into the classroom and saw all those faces staring at the presentation area, my lungs stopped working.

What if I mess up? What if they laugh? What if I freeze and everyone sees that I'm broken?

The thoughts came fast. Too fast. They piled on top of each other like a car crash in my brain.

I ran to the bathroom. I locked myself in the third stall. The walls were gray. There was graffiti that said "Mr. Henderson smells like cheese."

My heart was beating too fast. Thump-thump-thump-thump. It felt like it was going to explode out of my chest.

I'm dying, I thought. This is it. I'm having a heart attack in the third stall.

But then I remembered what Dr. Pinsky had said: "Your body is trying to protect you from a tiger that isn't there. You have to tell your body the truth."

I looked around. No tiger. Just a toilet and some cheese graffiti.

I pulled out my notebook. My hands were shaking, but I opened it to the page labeled: EMERGENCY PROTOCOL.

Step 1: Name Five Things You Can See.

I forced my eyes to focus.

1. Gray stall door.

2. Silver lock.

3. Toilet paper roll (half empty).

4. Graffiti (cheese-related).

5. My sneakers (untied).

My heart slowed. Just a little.

Step 2: Four Things You Can Touch.

I reached out.

1. Cold metal door.

2. Rough toilet paper.

3. Smooth notebook paper.

4. The zipper on my backpack.

My breathing steadied. In. Out. In. Out.

Step 3: Three Things You Can Hear.

I listened.

1. Water dripping from the faucet. Drip. Drip.

2. Voices in the hallway.

3. My own heartbeat. Slower now. Thump... thump... thump.

Step 4: Two Things You Can Smell.

I sniffed.

1. Soap (fake lemon).

2. Floor cleaner (real bleach).

Step 5: One Thing You Can Taste.

I licked my lips. Chapstick. Cherry flavor.

I closed my eyes. I wasn't dying. I was sitting in a bathroom stall, and I was okay.

I opened my notebook to the next page. I had written this two weeks ago, during a session with Dr. Pinsky:

"Dear Buzz,

If you are reading this, you are probably scared. That's okay. Being scared doesn't mean you're broken. It means you're human.

You have survived 100% of your worst days. You will survive this one too.

You've got this.

Love, Buzz (from two weeks ago)"

I read it three times. Then I stood up. I washed my hands. I counted to three while the water ran.

I walked back to class. My legs felt shaky, but they worked.

Mrs. Henderson was calling names. "Buzz Montgomery?"

I walked to the front. I set up my solar system. I looked at the faces. They weren't monsters. They were just kids. Some of them looked bored. Some looked curious. One kid was picking his nose.

I took a breath. I didn't count it. I just took it.

"My project is about the solar system," I said. My voice shook, but the words came out. "And how even when things are far apart, gravity still holds them together."

I pressed the button. The planets started rotating. Jupiter wobbled a little, but it kept spinning.

The class clapped. It wasn't a standing ovation. It was just regular, polite clapping.

But I had done it. I had walked into the panic, used my tools, and walked out the other side.

________________________________________

Field Log Addendum:

The Panic did not kill me.

The rituals worked.

Jupiter wobbled, but it kept spinning.

I sat down at my desk. My heart was still beating fast, but it was a good fast. The kind of fast you feel after running, not the kind you feel when you're drowning.

I opened my notebook and wrote:

"Dear Future Buzz,

You did it. And you'll do it again.

P.S. — You got a B+. Jupiter's wobble was 'charming.'"

BONUS CHAPTER 2: The Lunch Table Conference

Field Log: Day 4,401 (12:15 Hours)

Location: The Cafeteria.

Mission: Survival.

Discovery: Critical Intelligence.

I was sitting at my usual table. The corner table. The table for kids who eat alone by choice (or by lack of other options).

Then Subject K (Kevin) sat down across from me.

Kevin was in my Science class. He always had perfect handwriting. He color-coded his binders. He was the kid teachers pointed at when they said, "Be more like Kevin."

"Hey," Kevin said.

I looked up from my sandwich. "Hey."

Kevin opened his lunchbox. Everything inside was in a separate container. The sandwich was in a baggie. The chips were in a baggie. The apple slices were in a baggie with lemon juice so they wouldn't turn brown.

He stared at the food. He didn't eat.

"Do you... do you ever feel like if you don't do things a certain way, something bad will happen?" Kevin asked quietly.

I stopped chewing.

"Like what?" I said.

"Like... I have to zip my backpack three times. And if I don't, my mom will get in a car accident."

My heart started pounding. Three times. He said three times.

"That's..." I started. "That's called Magical Thinking."

Kevin looked up. His eyes were wide. "You know about it?"

"I do it too," I said. "I tap things. I count steps. If I don't, the Beast gets bigger."

Kevin exhaled like he'd been holding his breath for a year.

"I thought I was the only one," he whispered.

"You're not," I said.

We sat there. Two kids with Beasts. We didn't have to explain. We already knew.

________________________________________

Subject A (Aisha) walked past our table. She was carrying a tray. She stopped.

"Are you guys talking about the Brain Stuff?" Aisha asked.

Kevin and I looked at each other.

"Maybe," I said carefully.

Aisha sat down. "I can't eat in front of people. My Brain tells me everyone is watching. Everyone is judging. So I eat in the bathroom stall during second lunch."

"That's..." Kevin started.

"Anxiety," Aisha said flatly. "My therapist says it's Anxiety."

"You have a therapist?" I asked.

"Since fourth grade," Aisha said. She took a bite of her apple. She chewed it slowly, like it hurt. "My Beast tells me I'm going to choke. Every time I eat. So I have to chew everything forty times."

I stared at her. "Forty?"

"Exactly forty," she said. "Not thirty-nine. Not forty-one."

Kevin laughed. It was a shocked, relieved laugh. "I count my steps to the bus. If it's an odd number, I have to walk in a circle until it's even."

"I hold my breath when I see the color yellow," I said. "I don't know why. But if I don't, something bad will happen to my mom."

We all went quiet. We looked at each other.

"This is so messed up," Aisha said.

"Yeah," Kevin agreed.

"But it's not just us," I said.

Aisha looked around the cafeteria. "You think other kids have it too?"

I thought about Charlotte. I thought about Mom. I thought about the way David kicked things when he couldn't use his words.

"Yeah," I said. "I think everyone has a Beast. Some people just hide it better."

Kevin picked up a chip. He didn't eat it. "Does it ever go away?"

"I don't know," I said. "But maybe it gets smaller if you talk about it."

Aisha smiled. It was a small, tired smile. "Then we should probably keep talking."

We sat there. Three kids. Three Beasts. One lunch table.

For the first time in a long time, I didn't feel like a freak. I felt like a scientist who just found other scientists studying the same problem.

________________________________________

Field Log: Day 4,401 (12:45 Hours)

Status Update: Discovery logged. Hypothesis confirmed.

Conclusion: I am not alone.

AUTHOR'S NOTE (The Real Story)

Hi. I'm the Author. But a long time ago, I was Buzz.

I wrote this book to make you laugh. I wanted to turn the scary monsters of anxiety into something silly, something you could trap in a notebook.

But I need to tell you the truth.

In the last chapter, the Dad puts down his wrench and the family goes to therapy.

That didn't happen in my real life.

My Dad never stopped being an Ostrich. He spent his whole life in the garage. My Mom couldn't defeat the Ghost. The silence in our house didn't shrink—it just got heavier and heavier until I moved out.

I waited my whole childhood for the scene where everyone admitted the truth. It never came.

For a long time, I thought that meant I failed. I thought if I had been a better kid, or helped more, or made less noise, I could have fixed everything.

I was wrong.

Here's the secret: The victory isn't fixing the family. The victory is saving yourself.

I found friends who loved me exactly as I was. I found a therapist who helped me understand my feelings. I learned that I didn't have to hide or stay small to be safe. I built my own version of "Normal"—one that felt right for me.

If your family isn't ready to get help yet, here's what you CAN do:

• Talk to a trusted adult. A teacher, school counselor, coach, friend's parent, librarian—any safe grown-up who listens.

• Call or text a helpline. 988 is the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline (call or text, 24/7). You don't have to be suicidal to use it—it's for anyone in emotional distress.

• Remember: You can get help for YOURSELF, even if your family doesn't. Ask a school counselor about therapy options. Many schools offer free counseling.

• Your survival is not selfish. It's necessary.

About the Author:

Charles V. Sasser Jr. is a retired U.S. Army Command Sergeant Major with nearly 30 years of service. He holds elite qualifications—Ranger, Airborne, Pathfinder, Air Assault, and Jumpmaster—and has earned high-level awards including the Legion of Merit and four Bronze Stars. He has advised senior military leaders across the Middle East and Africa, serving in countries such as Saudi Arabia, Nigeria, Iraq, Afghanistan, Kuwait, and the UAE. A published contributor to the U.S. Army leadership handbook From One Leader to Another, he authored insights on behavioral health and resilience.

If you are a kid holding your breath right now:

1. You are not broken.

2. It is not your job to fix them.

3. You are going to be okay. Even if they aren't.

With love,

The Author (A former weird kid who made it out)