Though he had suspicions before, Concord knew the moment he opened his newborn cub eyes that he wasn't supposed to be like this. He wasn't supposed to have three toddling legs with stubby paws or fuzzy round ears on the top of his head. Neither was he meant to have a long nose nor soft fur pelting his skin. He was a stranger to his own bizarre body, trapped in its childish confines. His last memories were of kissing his very human partner, dust and ash wet with the tears trailing down their precious face. This world bore no signs of the cataclysm of his past, and the giant cats that surrounded him concerned themselves only with the next hunt.

His lion mother christened him Tulip for his striking orange fur, and he tolerated the name for her—this cub identity evidently was both her first and last, as she struggled with fertility her entire life until his peculiar conception. Though he got the vibe she wanted a daughter, she doted on him all the same, her only child. Despite her love, Concord struggled to even pretend to mesh in with and understand his new family, life, and culture. His now-congenital lame rear leg caused him undue stress in his new environment. He resented the pressure to consume raw carcasses, he screeched in terror and wept when his older cousins pounced on him in play, and he couldn't wrap his head around the hierarchy and structure. The strongest person he knew was his sister-in-law Harriet, but in his birth pride, the women—er, lionesses—weren't so highly regarded. He was already doomed to be cast out by his gender assigned at birth, but he was spurned even before then by his cousins and aunts—all but his lion mother. Frankly, he wasn't entirely upset by it. Pretending to be normal was exhausting, and watching the normal lion family frolic in joy just made his heart weep for what he had lost.

One day, on one of his strolls on the outskirts after a terrifying confrontation with a cousin mocking his lack of a mane, a magnificent flash of light in the distance drew his attention. Though every part of him prickled and burned with terror, his paws compelled him toward the phenomenon. Almost in a trance and against his will, he came upon a crater littered with glowing fragments—and in its center, a perfectly intact compass.

Suddenly, Concord knew what he had to do.

He left the suffocating lion pride younger than was expected of him, but with the compass's power pulsing through him, he knew he could stay no longer. His lion mother mourned her premature loss, and though he felt ugly for it, he set off following the needle's guidance.

It still has yet to lead him to anything of substance, but he clings to hope and curiosity. In solitude, he can practice his strange ways and stay mostly away from the peculiar and strict prides. He knows he has to keep going—they're out there somewhere. His sweet big brother, his lovely partner, his fierce sister-in-law, his best non-related-or-married friend—they have to be out there too. He can't be alone.

Concord has to find them.

Lunch is room-temperature oatmeal Lindsey down the road stole from a government supply run and the wild berries that grow in Alex’s backyard. Not that I particularly know any of them, but Concord is sure to inform me of everyone’s names. “Alex is nice. I think you’d like xem,” he tells me as he hands me a bowl.

“Because xe is nonbinary?”

“Oh no, xe has a cat.”

A cat.

“Her name’s Beef Stroganoof. A real sweetheart.”

“Strogan-oof?”

He nods, tittering, even if it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Here, wanna take this to Harriet?” he asks, passing off another bowl of oatmeal. Hers steams and toasts my hands, and he leans in. “Don’t let her know I only warmed hers up. She’d get up and skin me.”

“Of course, lovebug. You’re so sweet,” I say. My chest tickles with a giggle as his face freezes and his ears flush cherry pink. I leave him with that, turning toward my sister.

My laugh feels sour in my throat.

Harriet tucks under her don’t-hurt-people project, the blanket yanked up to her clammy chin and squished under her sides. Her knotted copper hair frames her pallid face. A glaze coats her golden eyes that stare blankly at the ceiling rounding upstairs. However, when a floorboard I never learned announces my presence to the entire street, she snaps to me, very, very much alive.

“Oh, thank the Lord, it’s my d-delivery person. I was getting hella bored,” Harriet says as I crouch beside her. “L-Look, tell ’em to come around and h-harass me more often, or it won’t be no bullet killin’ me.”

“But you need rest,” I tell her, setting the bowl beside her nest.

She snorts, rolling her eyes to the stars. “I know how much you can sleep, but th-there’s only so much I can do b-before I wanna jump off that bridge.” I bite my tongue while she inches up. She grunts and cringes, and by the time she’s sitting, her lean brown face has lost all its blood, and sweat weaves around her nose and panting lips. The heat radiating off her rivals the bowl of oatmeal.