The vet listed survival percentages, none of them hopeful. Some argued they should try hand-rearing anyway; others said the cubs were already lost. Ethan sat through it all, quiet but restless, his mind circling the same thought: There had to be another way. That night he took the first shift in the nursery. The cubs were tiny, blind, their cries thin as paper.
They squirmed under heat lamps, mouths searching blindly. Every two hours, Ethan warmed bottles and tried to coax them into feeding. Some sucked weakly, others refused. Fear coiled in his stomach with every ounce they didn’t drink. From the corridor came a soft scrape of claws. Bella. She sat outside the glass, nose pressed against it, tail tucked low.