Tom spent sleepless nights sketching maps, tracing Sahara’s movements like constellations. His plan became his obsession: to guide her back with scent, voice, and memory. Nyla’s blanket would be placed at the vet wing, the gate left open, and Tom himself would stand as the beacon. There would be no need for rifles, he hoped.
The police scoffed at first. “One wrong step and she kills someone.” Tom pushed back, his voice cracking. “She won’t attack—she’s searching. I can bring her home.” Against resistance, he won a fragile agreement: one corridor sealed by vehicles, the crowd pushed back, tranquilizer darts kept ready only as a last resort.