The city wasn’t so forgiving. News spread of “an attempted backyard attack.” Police amplified warnings, urging people to keep themselves and pets indoors. Reporters framed Sahara as a menace, a ticking clock. Yet whispers of Mrs. Latham’s quiet story drifted through the neighborhood, contradicting the official narrative. Sahara wasn’t killing, only passing through.
Desperation hardened the authorities’ stance. “Next encounter, we fire if necessary,” declared the chief. Patrols doubled, rifles locked and loaded. Fear tipped toward violence. Yet Tom’s gut twisted—every decision pushed Sahara closer to a forced encounter. He scribbled one word across his maps, circling it again and again: Nyla.