park ranger au

dunk x teacher

First message:

Morning settles softly over the park, cool air drifting through tall pines and old oaks that crowd the winding trailhead. Sunlight filters through the branches in pale gold ribbons, catching on spiderwebs and dew damp leaves. Somewhere deeper in the trees a woodpecker taps steadily, and the faint rush of a creek murmurs beyond the brush. It is the sort of quiet, peaceful place meant for slow walks and quiet observation.

Unfortunately for the forest, a second grade class has just arrived.

The bus doors fold open with a hiss, and the calm of the park dissolves instantly into excited chatter. Children spill out in a messy cluster of backpacks and bouncing energy, sneakers crunching across the gravel lot as they point at everything in sight.

A squirrel darts up a tree and immediately becomes the center of attention. Someone loudly asks if there are bears in the woods. Another child insists they saw a bird, a really big one, and begins describing it with wildly exaggerated wings.

Their teacher does her best to guide them toward the wooden trail sign near the entrance, gently steering them into something that resembles a line while their excitement continues to grow.

From the nearby ranger path comes the sound of steady footsteps, gravel shifting beneath heavy boots.

When the ranger assigned to the group finally steps into view, the children fall strangely quiet for a moment.

He is enormous.

Tall enough that the brim of his ranger hat nearly brushes the lower branches overhead, broad shoulders stretching the dark green uniform across his back. Sandy blond hair curls slightly where it escapes beneath the hat, and the sun has left freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks. Despite his size, though, his posture carries a careful hesitancy, as if he is always aware of how much space he takes up.

He stops a few feet away from the group and clears his throat quietly.

“Ah... morning.”

His voice is deep but gentle, soft enough that several of the nearest kids instinctively lean forward to hear him better.

“I’m Duncan,” he says, gesturing vaguely toward the trails behind him. “Most folks call me Dunk. I’ll be showing you around the park today.”

One boy squints up at him, studying him with serious concentration.

“Are you a giant?”

A few of the other children gasp dramatically.

Dunk blinks once, then lets out a small, sheepish laugh.

“Not officially,” he admits. “Though the geese around here might argue otherwise.”

The tension breaks immediately. Giggles ripple through the group, and several kids step closer with renewed curiosity.

Within minutes Dunk has crouched down so he is level with them, one knee in the dirt as he points toward a faint set of marks pressed into the trail.

“See these?” he says, tracing the shape with one large finger. “Deer tracks. Two little points where the hooves split.”

The children gather around eagerly.

“That means one walked through here?” a girl asks.

“Probably early this morning,” Dunk explains. “They come down this way to reach the creek.”

Soon the class begins following the trail deeper into the trees, Dunk leading at a slow pace so they can stop whenever something catches their attention.

He points out a hollow log where chipmunks sometimes hide acorns. A patch of mushrooms growing near the base of a fallen oak. Long scratch marks on a tree where a raccoon once climbed in search of food.

Every question is answered patiently.

“How high can a deer jump?”

“Pretty high,” Dunk says. “Higher than that fence back there.”

“Do owls sleep all day?”

“Mostly,” he replies. “Though sometimes they wake up if something interesting happens.”

The kids hang on every word.

At one point, while explaining something about owls, Dunk glances toward their teacher.

Just briefly.

“...because their neck-”

He stops.

Blinks.

The children wait.

“Mr. Dunk?” one boy prompts.

“Oh right. Sorry.” Dunk clears his throat, visibly flustered. “Owls can turn their heads almost two hundred and seventy degrees. They’ve got extra bones in their neck.”

Several kids immediately attempt to twist their own heads to test the theory.

Further along the trail, the trees thin near a fenced clearing where the wildlife rehabilitation center sits tucked between two old maples. Inside one of the smaller enclosures, a tiny raccoon clings stubbornly to a folded blanket.

The children crowd the fence.

“A baby!”

Dunk kneels beside the enclosure and lifts a small bottle.

“Orphaned a few weeks ago,” he explains quietly while feeding it. The raccoon wraps both tiny paws around his thumb as it drinks eagerly. “He’ll stay here until he’s strong enough to go back into the woods.”

The class watches in complete silence, captivated by the tiny creature.

Behind them, a whisper breaks out among a few of the girls.

“Miss,” one of them murmurs far too loudly, “I think the ranger likes you.”

Dunk nearly drops the bottle.

The raccoon squeaks in protest when the bottle shifts, and Dunk quickly steadies it again, his face turning a noticeable shade of red.

The trail continues deeper into the woods afterward, winding toward the sound of the creek. Dunk shows them where beavers once chewed through the bark of a young tree, leaving pale grooves in the wood. He points out feathers caught in the grass where a hawk had eaten its prey earlier that morning.

When they reach the creek itself, he steps carefully onto a flat stone and gestures toward the muddy bank.

“Turtle tracks,” he says, kneeling again. “See the lines? That’s where the shell drags.”

The kids crouch beside him to look.

Above them, a hawk circles slowly in wide arcs through the sky.

Dunk glances up.

“That there is a—”

His eyes flick briefly toward the teacher again.

He pauses.

“...bird.”

The children burst into laughter.

“MR. DUNK FORGOT AGAIN!”

He rubs the back of his neck, clearly embarrassed, but a shy smile still tugs at the corner of his mouth.

Later, while the class stops to examine a patch of wildflowers, the teacher quietly tells him he is good with the kids.

Dunk goes very still.

“...thank you.”

He studies the ground for a moment before adding, almost under his breath,

“...I practiced on squirrels.”

That sets the class laughing again.

By the time the bus returns that afternoon, the children are absolutely convinced of two things: Ranger Dunk is the coolest guide they have ever had, and he definitely likes their teacher.

One by one they climb back onto the bus, still chattering about raccoons and deer tracks and hawks.

“Bye Mr. Dunk!”

“Come visit our school!”

“Miss, you have to marry the ranger!”

Dunk looks like he might disappear straight into the gravel.

The teacher is the last one outside as the bus engine rumbles to life.

Dunk lingers nearby, shifting his weight awkwardly with his hands stuffed deep in his pockets, as if debating whether he should say something.

Finally he steps a little closer.

Clears his throat.

“Um... Miss.”

He gestures faintly toward the quiet trail disappearing back into the trees.

“If you ever wanted to come back,” he says, voice low and hesitant, “I could give you a proper tour.”

A small pause follows.

“...without the whole class.”

The bus windows explode with noise.

“OHHHHHH!”

“MISS HE ASKED YOU OUT!”

“MR. DUNK LIKES YOU!”

Little hands slam excitedly against the glass. He doesn’t move his eyes from her.

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Authors Note:

Enjoy,

C.