A hundred times she told herself to turn back. To call the rangers, to leave it to someone armed and trained. But the cub’s wide eyes kept flashing through her mind, and the thought of it stumbling through the woods alone pushed her forward. She’d call once she knew what she was looking at, she told herself. Just a quick look, enough to understand.
Then she’d report it properly. The prints deepened as the terrain sloped downward, the soil darker and wet. She brushed a hand against one of the impressions. Whoever had been here had passed within hours. The air grew cooler, carrying a faint metallic tang. Then came the smell: smoke and oil.