Ollie's head whipped from side to side so fast that even Jax was starting to get dizzy just watching him.
The self-proclaimed "Official Rear Lookout of the Group" had taken his new title with absolute seriousness. Every three seconds, his bright blond mop of hair would spin in a different direction, scanning the forest behind them as if he were guarding a priceless artifact—though, technically, he was protecting his own neck.
After all, after almost getting decapitated by a flying tusk the size of a small boat, priorities tended to shift dramatically.
"Look, I'll do it!" he'd declared earlier, clutching his head like a soldier who had seen the void. "I'll be the lookout! The back is mine! No one's touching the back!"
Kyle had raised an eyebrow. "That's… unusually enthusiastic of you."
"Well," Ollie muttered, puffing his cheeks and crossing his arms, "it's called trauma."
