But today was Graduation Day. Not the kind with caps and gowns—Leo’s parents had homeschooled him out of fear he’d be stepped on in the hallways of West High. Today was the day he was leaving the glass box.

He stepped onto his father’s palm. The ride to the open window felt like an elevator to the clouds. When they reached the sill, the scent of cut grass and car exhaust hit him—visceral and electric. To anyone else, it was a suburban backyard. To Leo, it was a sprawling, emerald jungle full of monsters and mysteries.

"That’s the point, Dad," Leo said, his voice high but steady. "I’ve spent seventeen years looking at the world through a lens. I want to see it without the glare."