Wolfgang Academy was one of the last remaining boarding schools for orphaned children in the United States. Since its founding in 1830, back when Wyoming was still a U.S. territory, the school had transformed the most unfortunate of orphans into entrepreneurs, leaders, and even five senators.
The institution was the legacy of the Wolfgang family—a dynasty of railroad tycoons who shifted to real estate after the decline of the rail industry. Their estate, vast and private, housed the Academy on a small portion of its land.
Students nicknamed the Academy "Hogwarts" for two reasons. First, its remote location. The school was nestled within Wolfgang Estate, a vast park-like area that had fewer than a hundred residents. The nearest town, Powell, was miles away. Hills, rivers, and thick woods surrounded the grounds, sparking student-led stories and urban legends.
Second, the school's architecture resembled a castle. A complex of Victorian-era buildings sat behind fortified walls, encircled by towering mountains, with a lone road cutting through the range. Hikers who stumbled across it often mistook it for a forgotten fortress.
For Kirt Heinrich, the best part of Wolfgang was its spaciousness. The campus buildings—or "blocks"—were widely dispersed, offering solitude for those who sought it. None were more iconic than the two towers known as the Residencies. Despite their sci-fi sounding name, they were simple in purpose: housing students. Boys lived in the eastern tower, girls in the western. Each had a common room at its base, study lounges on the first two floors—one for younger students and one for high schoolers—and dormitory levels above.
That evening, only the tenth-grade students remained awake. The common room was warm with anticipation and chatter, filled with the muted buzz of students preparing for the following day's field trips. Section 10A, Kirt's group, buzzed with excitement about their upcoming jungle expedition to Bolivia, while 10B would soon be off to Sri Lanka for a service project.
Some students lounged on couches or beanbags. Others stood or pulled up chairs. In the center stood Miss Berkley, the Algebra II teacher, reminding them once more of the field trip policies. A blizzard howled outside, snow pressing against the windows, and the fireplace's meager warmth left most students wrapped in blankets.
Kirt, seated on a couch, barely listened. He already knew every instruction by heart.
"Make sure y'all double-check your bags before you head to bed," Miss Berkley said, her Southern drawl unmistakable. "Y'all are going to third-world countries, so if you forget something, it's gonna be a real pain. And don't forget your toothbrush and toothpaste. Bring extras if you think you'll need 'em! Your chaperones don't want to be dealin' with stinky breath. Any more questions?"
No one raised a hand. No one wanted to prolong the lecture.
"Well, looks like we're all set then. I'll head over to the girls' tower. Goodnight, gentlemen! Sleep well and rest up. It's gonna be a long trip tomorrow." She grabbed her hot cocoa and files, and left.
As soon as the door clicked shut, the room came alive again. Conversations resumed, students rushed for snacks, and most of 10B drifted off to bed. The rest stayed behind, soaking in the last moments of downtime.
"Man, she can really talk," Timothy said, slouched into a couch beside Jackson King. "She treats us like we're dumb in Algebra too. Goes on and on about theorems like we're in third grade."
Jackson smirked. "Seriously. I don't know how her husband puts up with it."
Timothy snorted. "Please. Women like that either stay single or get divorced."
Kirt chuckled along, then winced. He liked Miss Berkley. She'd always been patient with him, helped him through rough patches in class, and never once raised her voice. But fitting in mattered too—maybe more than he liked to admit. Every laugh he gave at her expense made something twist in his chest. He wasn't proud of it, but it felt easier than being the odd one out. That tension always lingered—between doing what felt right and not wanting to be the guy who couldn't take a joke.. She'd always been kind. But he also knew how easy it was to join the teasing.
"Dude, that's harsh," he said, still grinning.
"Just wait till Michaela hears about this," Jackson said. "She's gonna go off—call you a walking case study in misogyny."
Kirt laughed. "Oh, totally. She'd post a whole thread about it. Rip you to shreds, cancel Jackson for enabling you, and drag me for not stepping in."
Francisco tried to jump in, forcing a laugh. "Yeah, same here. She got mad at me once and lit up my Twitter. Went full rant mode."
Jackson didn't even look up. "Surprise, surprise," he muttered.
Timothy raised a brow. Kirt didn't say anything. They'd all been avoiding Francisco lately.
Francisco went quiet, cheeks flushing red. He chuckled awkwardly, then looked down at his game.
Kirt stood, trying to shift the mood. "Alright, I'm heading to my room."
"Night, Kirt," Jackson said.
"See ya," added Timothy and Francisco.
Francisco, clearly sensing he wasn't welcome, drifted to the corner with his Switch.
Kirt was halfway to the door when a question struck him. "Hey, Timothy—have you seen Hernanda around?"
"Ooooh," Jackson teased, elbowing Timothy. "Somebody's got a crush."
Kirt's face turned crimson. He tried to play it cool but ended up laughing with them.
"Look at that! Kid's glowing like a stop sign," Jackson said.
"Shut up," Kirt muttered, chucking a cushion.
"Lover boy over here," Timothy said. "Can't even talk straight."
"Guys—" Kirt tried, his voice cracking.
"He's done for," Jackson laughed.
Eventually the teasing died down.
"Last I saw her, she was at the Braydon lounge," Timothy said. "She left early to pack up and get to bed before nine."
"Cool, thanks."
"Don't stay up all night texting her," Jackson warned, wagging a finger.
"Shut up," Kirt said again, ears burning.
He grabbed a Coke and some biscuits on his way out.
The stairs to the tenth floor were brutal—long, narrow, and creaky with age. Kirt's footsteps echoed off the stone walls as he climbed, the scent of old wood and dust rising with each level. His hand brushed against the cool iron railing, and every so often, a faint draft whispered through the cracked windows, carrying with it the faint smell of pine from the surrounding forest. The higher he climbed, the quieter it became, until all he could hear was the steady rhythm of his breath and the soft creak of the stairs beneath him.
Tonight, the halls were still. No kids racing up and down. The younger grades were finally asleep.
His room looked unusually tidy. The bags he'd packed were tucked neatly under the bed, clothes he wasn't taking folded in the wardrobe. He tossed the Coke, grabbed a few books from his cupboard, and stuffed them into his carry-on.
He checked everything one last time. Then lay down.
Sleep didn't come.
He rolled over and over, heart buzzing. He imagined wild rivers, jungle creatures, survival challenges. It was like one of the movies he loved. He couldn't wait.
The bus was coming at 7 a.m., just as Miss Berkley said. Both sections—10A and 10B—would ride to Billings Logan Airport in Montana. From there, they'd fly to New York. After that, they'd split—10B to Sri Lanka, and 10A, his group, to Bolivia.
Adventure was just hours away.
***
The flight was tedious and draining. Kirt couldn't sleep—partly because the baby in the row ahead of him cried relentlessly, but that wasn't the only reason. Each time he saw the mother gently rock and nurse her child, a hollow ache stirred in his chest. His parents were gone. That truth, though old, never stopped hurting. He envied the baby for something so simple: a mother's touch, a father's presence. How he longed for someone to call him before trips like this, just to fuss over whether he'd packed enough socks. For a father to teach him soccer, to be the kind of best friend who showed up for every milestone. But life, he thought, had a cruel way of denying the most beautiful things.
People assumed students at Wolfgang Academy lived privileged lives—and in many ways, they did. Generous donors provided them with excellent devices, ample allowances, and exciting field trips like this one. But those luxuries didn't fill the void. They didn't replace what Kirt wanted most: a family. He would've traded all of it—his dorm room, his gadgets, even the trips—for a quiet life in a small Appalachian home with a mom and dad. Parental love was irreplaceable. No friend, no spouse, no amount of money could measure up to it. Despite all he had in Wyoming, he still lacked the one thing he needed most.
It was near dawn when the plane descended into La Paz. The landing was rough, jostled by a thunderstorm stretching from Colombia to Bolivia. Since crossing into South America, the view from Kirt's window had been nothing but dense clouds, flickering now and then with lightning. Beside him, Hernanda slept with her head resting on his shoulder. He didn't move—he didn't want to disturb her. Instead, he smiled softly and stared out into the storm.
They'd said goodbye to their classmates from 10B the day before. That group had flown to Sri Lanka for a service trip. There was envy in their parting; while 10B was headed to volunteer, Kirt's group was bound for an adventure. Life, he mused, wasn't always fair. No one chose where they were sent.
As soon as he stepped off the plane, nausea hit him hard. His lungs worked overtime, greedily pulling in the thin, high-altitude air until his body began to adjust. Compared to the others, Kirt acclimated quickly. Around him, classmates and teachers suffered with headaches, dizziness, and fatigue as they made their way to the hotel two hours later.
"I feel like I've been needing to pee since we landed. If I keep holding it in, my bladder's gonna burst," Timothy complained on the bus from the airport. Jackson muttered about a splitting headache.
Hernanda, pale and miserable, reached for the vomiting bag again. "I've never felt this sick in my life."
By 8:30 a.m., Kirt was in the hotel room he'd share with Timothy McAllister, Francisco Adelante, and Mr. Gallagher for the next three days. Hernanda and her roommates—Ms. Christina Seagale, Catherine Newcastle, and AnnSophia Fabron—were staying in the room opposite theirs. The rest of the class filled out the corridor.
From the window of his room, Kirt could see clusters of houses clinging to the hillsides, cars winding along narrow roads, shops and restaurants tucked into valleys. Their teachers had picked a hotel with a view—and what a view it was. The Andes stretched majestically in the distance, watching over the city like ancient sentinels. He stood there for a while, just breathing it in.
That first day, their class explored the city with Mr. Gallagher and Ms. Seagale. Since Bolivia shared a time zone with the U.S. East Coast, adjusting hadn't been hard.
They wandered through a bustling marketplace where street performers danced, painted portraits, juggled, and performed magic. Bands played nearby: harmonicas, guitars, quenas, panpipes, even reco-recos weaving a vibrant, musical tapestry through the streets. Some performers sang with voices so rich and clear, they cut through the morning like light through mist.
"Aren't they Mariachi?" Alice asked as they stopped to take selfies in front of one such band.
"No," Kirt replied, just after Ms. Seagale snapped a photo of their group—him, Hernanda, Alice, Jackson, and Timothy. "Mariachi bands don't usually wear those colorful shawls or use so many traditional instruments."
"How do you know that?" Hernanda asked.
He grinned. "Is there anything you can't find on Google?"
They wandered deeper into the market and into a spice section where the air was thick with the scent of cloves, paprika, cinnamon—warm aromas that reminded Kirt of the souqs in Doha, back when they'd attended the THIMUN-Qatar conference.
"¿Buenos días, señores y señoritas. Ustedes necesitan algo?" a young boy offered them a handful of cloves to smell.
"No, gracias," Kirt said, marveling at the neat rows of spices in burlap sacks.
But it was the street food that stole his heart. Every corner sizzled with oil and temptation—cheese, fried meat, and dough sent mouthwatering smells wafting through the streets.
"Weren't you dieting?" Timothy teased David Taylor, who had a half-eaten empanada in hand and sauce dripping down his chin.
David mumbled, mouth full. Then he swallowed and declared, "Can't help it, Timmie!"
Timothy just laughed and bought two for himself from an old woman's cart.
The next day, they visited Valle de La Luna—a rocky, grey landscape that looked like something from another world. Kirt understood why filmmakers loved it. Before heading back, they stopped by a small lake and a reptile park. That afternoon, after a few hours of rest, they attended a food festival in the commercial center of El Alto.
By the third day, La Paz had enchanted them. No one really wanted to leave. But at 2:30 p.m., their bus was scheduled to take them to the jungle camp. It didn't arrive on time. Kirt fell asleep waiting, only waking up three hours later when Mr. Gallagher gently shook his shoulder and helped him with his bags.
"I am Sergio Abrigo," said a tall man with a firm handshake and Spanish-accented English as Kirt boarded. He would later learn Sergio was in charge of the camp.
"Heinrich. Heinrich Kirt," he said with a sleepy smile.
Once everyone was accounted for, the teachers gave the signal to depart. Sergio pulled the bus away from the hotel, and Kirt glanced back one last time.
He thought of the room with the mountain view, the streets alive with music and spice, and the memories they'd made. Then he turned to face the road ahead, excitement bubbling in his chest. The adventure was only just beginning.