Elias clicked his tongue—a soft, rhythmic sound used to comfort stressed wildlife. He moved forward an inch at a time, keeping his profile low. The calf was trembling so violently that he could see its ribs heaving under its dusty skin. It didn’t bolt.
Suddenly, the calf snapped out of its trance and hurtled toward him. It slammed into his shins, tucking itself behind his knees, shaking uncontrollably. Elias looked past the frightened animal to the patch of grass, realizing with a sinking feeling that the calf had been standing guard. He crept forward, parted the dry, golden stalks, and discovered the mother—limp, tranquilized, a heavy-duty dart protruding from her shoulder.
His stomach turned. The chemical work was sloppy and desperate; this wasn’t for medical help. He checked the mother’s vitals, his fingers pressing against her neck. She was breathing, but her heart rate was shallow and irregular. As he turned to scan the perimeter, his blood ran cold. The silence was finally broken by a low vibration.