The standoff broke when Nyla’s cry sounded again, faint but unyielding. Sahara turned fully toward the vet wing, ignoring rifles, cameras, and fear. The crowd held its breath. At last, the chief lowered his hand. “Stand down,” he muttered. Weapons wavered, disbelief rippling. Against every order, mercy held.
Keepers cracked open the gate to the medical wing, hearts pounding. Sahara slipped through, limping, eyes locked forward. Inside, Nyla stirred weakly, ears twitching. The sisters’ eyes met, and Sahara moaned again—soft, trembling. Nyla answered, the faintest echo of life. The reunion silenced Oakridge more deeply than rifles ever could.