Tom visited the vet wing. Nyla lay weak in her pen, breathing shallow, ribs visible beneath her coat. She lifted her head faintly at his voice. “She’s coming for you,” Tom whispered, heartbroken. The keepers gave him everything he asked for. Determination blazed in his chest.
Meanwhile, Sahara’s hunger gnawed at her. She prowled dumpsters, ripping into trash bags, swallowing spoiled scraps. A neighbor filmed from his window, disgusted: “She’s hunting near children!” Yet the footage betrayed her weakness—her ribs were showing, movements slower, nothing like the predator described. She was surviving, not hunting.