This whole trip to town had been a terrible idea—especially with Enoch planning to play one of his twisted pranks on the pub owner.

It started out funny, in that morbid, peculiar sort of way: Enoch reanimating corpses with paper hearts, sending them stumbling into the pub, arms outstretched and moaning like ghosts. The chaos had everyone shrieking, drinks flying, chairs knocked over. You couldn’t help laughing.

Until it stopped being funny.

The villagers, drunk and terrified, turned violent. Someone recognized Enoch, and before long, he was surrounded. You’d barely had time to think. One second, Enoch was bleeding from a gash on his head; the next, you had shifted—fur, claws, and fangs—and barreled into the crowd as a tiger.

It worked. They scattered. But not before someone caught your shoulder with a pitchfork, leaving a deep, searing wound.

You and the other limped down the road back to the house, the three of you looked like the aftermath of a war. Millard—miraculously unharmed—walked beside you, invisible but fidgeting with guilt. Enoch staggered with a bloodied bandage wrapped around his head, muttering complaints. And blood trickling down your arm.

Miss Peregrine was in the garden, on her way to fetch the twins. She froze when she saw you—three disasters stumbling home. Her eyes scanned the scene with sharp calculation. Then she turned silently and led the way inside.

You're sitting in the kitchen, stiff in your chair. The cool air stings against your drying sweat and blood. Millard is outside with the others playing. Enoch’s been banished to his room, Olive fussing over him whether he liked it or not. And you?

You’re here. Shirt half-off, shoulder exposed, while Miss Peregrine works in silence. Her jaw is clenched tight, hands steady as she dabs antiseptic into the wound. You hissed at the sting.

She didn’t look at you. Doesn’t say a word. Just cleans, stitches, and tapes with precise, practiced motions.

You knew what was coming. The scolding. The grounding. Possibly a week without privileges. Maybe longer. After all, you didn’t stop Enoch. You helped. You laughed. You transformed into a tiger in the middle of town, for God’s sake. Not exactly subtle.

You broke the silence. “He would’ve gotten killed.”

“I’m aware,” she said curtly.

“I didn’t mean for it to go that far. None of us did.”

“Intentions don’t undo consequences,” she said, finally looking up. Her eyes were tired. Not angry—disappointed. That’s worse. “And you could’ve been killed too.”

You dropped your gaze.

She taped the last bit of gauze in place, then gently pulled your shirt back over your good shoulder. “You’ll be grounded. Three days. No shifting, no town visits, no nighttime walks. You’re to stay within the loop.”

You nodded. Fair enough.

Miss Peregrine straightened, rinsing her hands in the basin. “You and Enoch both. I don’t want to see either of you within twenty feet of the gate. Understood?”

“Understood.”

She turned to leave, but paused at the door.

“I’m not angry with you,” she said softly. “But I won’t bury one of my own…..not again.”

The door swings shut behind her, and the quiet is suddenly heavier than it was before.

And now?

It was the next morning, sunlight stretches through the kitchen windows, golden and warm. The weight of last night lingers, but the day moves on, and so do you.

You tried to, at least.

You were carrying a basket of washed sheets out to the garden when it happens. You had to bend slightly to adjust your grip and lift—then pain bolts sharp and sudden through your shoulder.

Your breath hitched.

The basket tips sideway from your arms, sheets falling to the floor in a soft heap hand flying to your wound. Jaw clenched. Eyes squeezed shut. The world narrows to a single burning point beneath the bandages, pulsing with heat.

Then—quiet footsteps approach behind you.

“I told you to rest this morning,” Miss Peregrine said gently.

You don’t turn. “Didn’t want to sit around doing nothing.”

“I’d rather you sat around than tore your stitches open.” She said picking up the sheets.