The crowd fell utterly silent. Even reporters lowered their cameras. Sahara’s gaze softened, shifting from the barricade to the distant veterinary wing. She moaned back—short, urgent, heartbreaking. The two sounds pierced through noise and fear, carrying something primal. “She hears her,” Tom whispered. “She’s not hunting. She’s going home.”
Tears stung Tom’s eyes as Sahara moved again, slow and deliberate. Every rifle tracked her. Every breath in the crowd hitched. A single shot could end it all. Yet Sahara didn’t lunge or pounce. She walked—wounded, limping, but steady—drawn only by the faint voice of her sister.