The shift didn’t happen all at once. First, the steady, rhythmic drone of cicadas abruptly dropped an octave, then stopped entirely. The local population of rhesus macaques, usually a chaotic chorus of shrieks and crashing branches in the upper canopy, went utterly dormant. The jungle wasn’t waking up; it was holding its breath. Then came the sound. It wasn’t a roar—a roar is an assertion of dominance, a magnificent sound meant to claim territory.
This was a low, wet, agonizing groan. It vibrated through the damp earth before it even reached the blind, a guttural rasp of pure physical suffering that sent an instinctive, primordial jolt of adrenaline straight down Deen’s spine. He didn’t turn his head. Years in the bush had taught him that sudden movements turn curiosity into an attack. Instead, he slowly, deliberately shifted his gaze to the left view-port of the canvas blind.