"The Night the Lions Came":
I was twelve, living in a small village in Ethiopia where the days blended into each other—school, chores, and walking the dusty paths that wound through fields and toward the distant forests. The sounds of the wilderness were familiar: birds chirping, the occasional bleat of a goat, and sometimes, far off, the deep roar of a lion. Those roars always made me pause, but lions stayed away from our village, so I never worried much. That day, though, something felt off as I walked home from school. The shadows seemed longer, the air heavier, like the world was holding its breath. I shook it off, thinking it was just my imagination, but I couldn’t have been more wrong.
I was halfway home, kicking pebbles along the path, when I heard footsteps behind me—quick, deliberate, not the lazy shuffle of a neighbor. My stomach twisted, but before I could turn, a rough hand clamped over my mouth, stifling my scream. Another grabbed my arms, pinning them behind me. I kicked, twisted, tried to bite, but there were four of them—men with hard faces, eyes cold as stones. “Stop fighting,” one hissed, his voice low and mean. “You’re coming with us. A man’s paid good money for you. You’re getting married.”
Married? I was a child. The word hit me like a slap, and panic surged through me. I thrashed harder, but they were too strong. One tied my wrists with coarse rope that bit into my skin, while another pulled a dirty cloth over my eyes, knotting it tight. The world went dark, and all I could hear was my own ragged breathing and their low, angry voices. “Keep her quiet,” one snapped. “We don’t need anyone hearing her.”
They lifted me off the ground, carrying me like a sack of grain. I tried to scream, but the hand over my mouth pressed harder, making my jaw ache. We moved for what felt like hours, the men’s footsteps crunching on the ground, their muttered arguments filling the air. “This better be worth it,” one grumbled. “The buyer’s waiting, but the police are sniffing around.” “Shut up and keep moving,” another barked. My heart sank. Police? Maybe there was hope, but it felt so far away.
They finally stopped at a small hut. They shoved me inside, and the air was thick with the smell of damp earth and rotting wood. The blindfold stayed on, but I could hear insects buzzing, feel the hard dirt floor beneath me. “Stay here and keep your mouth shut,” one of them growled. “You make noise, you get the stick.” I curled into a corner, tears soaking the blindfold. My wrists burned from the rope, and my body ached from being dragged. I didn’t understand why this was happening. I just wanted to go home, to hear my mother’s voice, to feel my father’s arms around me.
Days blurred together—or maybe it was just one endless nightmare. They moved me at night, always blindfolded, always with rough hands yanking me along. Each time I tried to scream or pull away, they hit me with sticks, leaving bruises on my arms, legs, and back. “You’ll learn to obey,” one said, his voice flat, like he was talking about taming an animal. “The man who bought you doesn’t want trouble.” I stopped fighting after a while, too tired, too scared. My world shrank to the pain in my body and the fear in my heart.
One night, I overheard them whispering as they prepared to move me again. “The police are close,” one said, his voice tight with worry. “They’ve been asking questions in the villages.” “Then we move faster,” another replied, his tone sharp. “The buyer’s waiting in the hills. We hand her over, we get paid, we disappear.” My chest tightened. If the police were close, maybe I had a chance. But what if they didn’t find me in time? The thought made my stomach churn.
They untied my feet to march me out, but my hands stayed bound. The ground was uneven, and I stumbled, scraping my knees. “Get up,” one snapped, yanking me by the arm. My blindfold slipped slightly, letting me glimpse the dark shapes of trees and the faint glow of starlight. We were deep in the wilderness now, far from my village. The air was cool, and the sounds of the night—crickets, rustling leaves—felt louder, closer.
Then, a low growl rumbled through the darkness, freezing my blood. A lion. Another growl followed, then a third. Three lions, somewhere close. The men stopped dead. “Lions,” one whispered, his voice trembling. “We’re too exposed out here.” “What do we do?” another asked, panic creeping in. “We can’t fight them off.” The leader cursed under his breath. “Leave the girl. She’s not worth dying for.”
They dropped the ropes, and I heard their footsteps scrambling away, fading into the night. I stood there, blindfold half-loose, hands still tied, alone in the wilderness with lions nearby. My heart pounded so hard I thought it would burst. Lions were killers—everyone in the village knew that. I’d heard stories of them dragging off goats, even attacking people. Were they coming for me now? I tried to stay still, holding my breath, but my body shook uncontrollably.
Then, I felt something—something large and warm—brush against my leg. A soft, rumbling sound came from its throat, not a growl but something calmer, almost like a purr. I froze, expecting teeth, claws, pain. Instead, it lay down beside me, its heavy breathing loud in my ears. Another lion approached, its footsteps soft but deliberate, circling me slowly. A third joined, settling nearby. I could smell their musky scent, feel the weight of their presence. Why weren’t they attacking? Were they waiting, toying with me? My mind raced with images of being torn apart, but they just stayed there, like silent guards.
I don’t know how long I stood there, blindfold slipping further until I could see their shapes in the dim light—massive, golden bodies, eyes glinting as they watched me. One lion’s mane was thick and dark, another had a scar across its face. They didn’t move toward me, but they didn’t leave either. Every rustle in the bushes made me jump, thinking the men were coming back or that the lions would suddenly turn. My legs ached from standing so still, but I was too scared to move. What did they want? I remembered stories of lions protecting their cubs—had they mistaken me for one? My cries had been loud; maybe they thought I was theirs.
Hours passed, or maybe it just felt that way. My throat was dry, my body exhausted, but I didn’t dare sit down. The lions stayed close, their breathing a steady rhythm in the night. Then, faintly, I heard voices—human voices, calling my name. “Over here! Please!” I tried to shout, but my voice was weak, hoarse from days of crying.
The lions stirred. The one with the scar lifted its head, ears twitching. I held my breath, terrified they’d charge at the voices. Instead, they rose, slow and graceful, and padded into the darkness, their forms melting into the shadows. I stood alone, trembling, as the voices grew closer.
Torchlight flickered through the trees, and suddenly, hands were on me, gentle this time. Someone untied the ropes, pulled off the blindfold. The light stung my eyes, but as they adjusted, I saw my father’s face, streaked with tears. “My child,” he sobbed, wrapping me in his arms so tight I could barely breathe. “We thought we’d lost you forever.” My mother was there too, her hands shaking as she touched my face, my hair, like she couldn’t believe I was real.
Police officers stood behind them, their faces grim but relieved. “We’ve been searching for days,” one said, his voice kind. “The kidnappers are gone, but we’ll find them.” I didn’t care about the men right then. I just clung to my parents, feeling their warmth, their love.
As they carried me back to the village, I kept looking over my shoulder, half-expecting to see the lions watching from the darkness. They were gone, but their presence lingered in my mind. Why had they protected me? Had they heard my cries and thought I was one of their own? Or was it something else, something I’d never understand? The police said the lions had stayed with me for half a day, keeping the kidnappers at bay until help arrived. A wildlife expert later told the village the lions might have mistaken my whimpers for a cub’s mewing, but to me, it felt like more than instinct.
Back home, I couldn’t stop thinking about those lions. The bruises on my body faded, but the memory of their eyes, their quiet strength, stayed with me. The wilderness was still a place of danger—snakes, hyenas, and men who did terrible things—but it was also a place of miracles. Those lions, with their scarred faces and heavy paws, had become my guardians in a way I’d never expected. And every night, as I lay in my bed, I listened for their roars in the distance, wondering if they knew they’d saved me.
"Ning Nong Knew":
I was eight years old, perched high on the back of an elephant named Ning Nong, my legs swinging as we trudged along the sandy stretch of Laguna Beach in Phuket. The air was thick with the smell of salt, sunscreen, and the faint sweetness of mangoes from a nearby vendor. Waves rolled in gently, their rhythm mixing with the chatter of tourists, the laughter of kids building sandcastles, and the calls of men selling cold drinks. My parents were back at the hotel, probably lounging by the pool or sipping cocktails at the bar, their voices fading into the hum of the morning. I’d begged them for this elephant ride, my first ever, and I couldn’t stop grinning, feeling like I was on top of the world. Yong, the mahout, sat in front of me, his thin frame steady as he guided Ning Nong with a small wooden stick. His dark hair was slicked back, and he wore a faded blue shirt, humming a tune I didn’t recognize.
“Is she always this slow?” I asked, leaning forward, my hands gripping the edges of the wobbly saddle.
Yong chuckled, glancing back at me. “She’s taking her time. Ning Nong’s careful with kids. You’re light as a feather to her.”
I giggled, patting her rough, gray skin. It felt like sandpaper, warm from the sun, and I marveled at how something so big could be so gentle. Her trunk swayed lazily, occasionally curling up to sniff the air. The beach was alive around us—families sprawled on colorful towels, a group of teenagers kicking a soccer ball, a woman in a bright sarong selling pineapple slices. I waved at a little boy who stared wide-eyed at Ning Nong, and he waved back, his face splitting into a grin.
But then, Ning Nong stopped. Her massive body froze mid-step, and I felt a tremor run through her, like a shiver. Her ears, huge and flapping, twitched sharply, and her trunk shot up, sniffing the air with quick, jerky movements. The saddle creaked as she shifted her weight, her feet stomping lightly in the sand. My smile faded. Something felt wrong, like the air had gotten heavier.
“What’s she doing?” I asked, my voice smaller than before.
Yong’s humming stopped. He leaned forward, his hands tightening on the rope looped around Ning Nong’s neck. “I don’t know,” he said, his brow creasing. “She’s acting strange.”
I looked around, trying to figure out what had spooked her. The beach still looked normal—people laughing, waves crashing, seagulls circling overhead. But Ning Nong let out a low, rumbling sound, almost like a growl, and my stomach twisted. I’d never heard an elephant make a noise like that. Yong tapped her with his stick, muttering something in his language, but she didn’t budge. Instead, she raised her trunk higher, her ears pinned back, and she swayed, restless.
“Yong, is she okay?” I asked, my hands clutching the saddle tighter.
He didn’t answer right away. He stood up in the saddle, shielding his eyes with one hand as he stared out at the sea. “Something’s not right,” he said, his voice low, almost to himself.
I followed his gaze. The water looked… wrong. The waves weren’t coming in anymore. Instead, the sea was pulling back, retreating from the shore like someone had yanked it away. The wet sand glistened, exposing shells, seaweed, and small fish flopping helplessly in shallow pools. It was eerie, unnatural, like the ocean was holding its breath. People on the beach noticed too. A man in a red cap pointed, shouting, “Hey, look at that! The sea’s gone!” A few tourists wandered toward the exposed seabed, curious, picking up shells and laughing.
“Is that supposed to happen?” I asked, my voice trembling now.
Yong’s face tightened. “No,” he said, his eyes locked on the horizon. “That’s not good.”
I squinted, trying to see what he was looking at. Far out, where the sky met the sea, a thin, dark line appeared. It was small at first, barely noticeable, but it was growing, moving closer. My heart started to race. Ning Nong trumpeted, a loud, piercing blast that made me jump. Before Yong could react, she turned sharply, away from the beach, and started moving inland, her heavy feet thudding against the sand. The saddle rocked, and I grabbed the edges, my knuckles white.
“Yong, what’s she doing?” I cried, my voice high with panic.
“I can’t stop her!” he shouted, yanking at the rope. “She’s never done this before!”
Ning Nong was moving faster now, not quite running but faster than her usual plod. Her trunk swung wildly, and her ears flapped as she pushed through the sand, heading toward a line of palm trees at the edge of the beach. I looked back, and my breath caught. The dark line on the horizon wasn’t a line anymore—it was a wall of water, towering, gray, and frothing, racing toward the shore. It roared, a deep, guttural sound that drowned out the screams starting to rise from the beach.
“Tsunami!” a woman shriek Chills ran down my spine as the word hit me. I’d heard it before, in school or on TV, but I didn’t really know what it meant—only that it was bad. People were running now, their voices sharp and frantic. A man grabbed his child’s hand, dragging her toward the road. A vendor dropped his tray of fruit, mangoes rolling across the sand. “Run! Run!” someone yelled, but the water was coming too fast.
“Yong, my parents!” I screamed, tears stinging my eyes. They were back at the hotel, near the beach. Were they safe? Could they see the wave?
“We can’t go back!” Yong yelled, his voice cracking. He was still pulling at Ning Nong’s rope, but she ignored him, her steps steady and determined as she climbed a gentle slope toward higher ground. “Hold on tight!”
I clung to the saddle, my body bouncing with each of Ning Nong’s steps. The smell of salt was stronger now, mixed with something sharp, like mud and fear. The wave was closer, its roar so loud it felt like it was inside my head. I glanced back again, and my heart stopped. The water was hitting the beach, swallowing everything—chairs, umbrellas, people. I saw a woman in a yellow dress running, her arms flailing, but the wave caught her, pulling her under like she was nothing. A car flipped over, tumbling through the foam. My throat tightened, and I couldn’t breathe. Were my parents in that?
Ning Nong crashed through the palm trees, branches snapping under her weight. The ground was steeper now, and her steps slowed, but she didn’t stop. Her trunk curled protectively near me, and I could feel her breathing, heavy and fast. Yong was muttering to her, his voice urgent, but I couldn’t make out the words. All I could hear was the water, the screams, the crunch of debris being swept away below.
“Is she going to save us?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
Yong looked at me, his eyes wide with fear but steady. “She’s trying,” he said. “She knows something we don’t.”
The hill grew steeper, and Ning Nong’s steps became more deliberate, her massive feet digging into the soft earth. I could feel her muscles working beneath me, powerful and sure. The roar of the wave was deafening now, and I didn’t dare look back. I didn’t want to see how close it was. Instead, I focused on Ning Nong’s swaying trunk, the rhythm of her steps, anything to keep the panic from swallowing me whole.
We reached a clearing near the top of the hill, and Ning Nong finally stopped. She let out another trumpet, softer this time, and turned to face the beach. Yong slid off the saddle and helped me down, his hands shaking but gentle. My legs wobbled as I touched the ground, and I grabbed his arm to steady myself. “You okay?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
I nodded, but I wasn’t okay. I looked down at the beach, and my heart sank. The water had taken everything. Hotels were half-collapsed, their windows shattered, their walls smeared with mud. Trees were uprooted, twisted like matchsticks. The sea was still moving, swirling with debris—tables, clothes, pieces of roofs. I searched for my parents, for their familiar shapes, but I couldn’t see them. “Are they gone?” I whispered, tears streaming down my face.
Yong knelt beside me, his hand on my shoulder. “We’ll find them,” he said, but his voice wavered. “They’re strong. They’ll be okay.”
Ning Nong stood close, her trunk brushing my arm, warm and rough. I reached out and touched her, my fingers trembling. “Thank you,” I said, my voice breaking. I didn’t know if she could understand, but it felt like she did. Her big, dark eyes looked at me, calm now, like she knew we were safe.
The hours dragged on. The water below started to pull back, leaving behind a wrecked world—mud, broken buildings, and things I didn’t want to look at too closely. Yong stayed with me, sitting on the grass, his eyes scanning the chaos below. “They’ll come for us,” he said. “Rescuers will come.”
I nodded, but I couldn’t stop crying. I kept picturing my parents, their faces, their voices. What if they hadn’t made it? What if the water had taken them? Ning Nong lay down nearby, her trunk curled around a patch of grass, chewing slowly. She seemed so calm, so sure, and I envied her.
It was late afternoon when I heard shouts. Men in orange vests appeared, climbing the hill, calling out for survivors. Yong stood up, waving his arms. “Here! We’re here!” he shouted.
I stayed where I was, too scared to move, too scared to hope. But then I heard a voice—my mom’s voice. “Amber!” she screamed, and I saw her running toward me, her hair wet and plastered to her face, her clothes torn. My dad was behind her, limping but alive. I ran to them, sobbing, and they wrapped me in their arms, holding me so tight I could barely breathe.
“You’re safe,” my mom said, her voice shaking as she stroked my hair. “Oh, thank God you’re safe.”
“How did you get up here?” my dad asked, his eyes red and tired.
I pointed at Ning Nong, who was standing now, watching us with those steady eyes. “She knew,” I said. “She ran before the water came.”
Yong nodded, patting Ning Nong’s side. “She’s special,” he said, a small smile breaking through his exhaustion. “She felt it coming.”
My parents hugged Yong, thanking him over and over, but he shook his head. “Not me,” he said. “Her.”
That day stays with me, sharp and heavy. The fear, the screams, the way the world turned to chaos in minutes. The sight of that wave, unstoppable, swallowing everything. The smell of salt and destruction, the sound of lives breaking apart. But above it all, I remember Ning Nong—her restless trumpets, her steady climb, the way she carried me to safety when I didn’t even know I was in danger. I still see her in my dreams, her trunk raised, her steps sure, saving me from a nightmare that was all too real.
"The Bear That Chose Me":
I was hiking alone in the Sierra Nevada mountains, California, trying to shake off the weight of a bad week. My backpack was heavy, stuffed with a sleeping bag, two liters of water in a scratched-up bottle, a small stove, a can of beans, granola bars, and a bag of dried apricots. The trail was rugged, a narrow path winding through towering pine trees and jagged rock outcrops. The air carried the sharp scent of pine sap and dry earth, mixed with the faint musk of something wild. My boots crunched on gravel, the sound blending with distant bird calls and the whisper of wind through branches. I’d been out here for three days, camping under a sky so clear it felt like I could touch the stars. It was my escape, my way to feel free. But that morning, something felt wrong. The forest was too quiet, the shadows too sharp, like the trees were watching. I pushed the feeling down, adjusted my pack, and kept moving, my map folded in my pocket.
I was deep in the backcountry, miles from the nearest road, when I saw it. A flicker of movement on a rocky ledge about twenty feet ahead. I froze, my breath catching. A mountain lion crouched there, its yellow eyes locked on me, unblinking. Its body was lean, muscles rippling under tawny fur, tail twitching like a slow metronome. My heart slammed against my ribs. I’d read about this—don’t run, don’t turn your back, make yourself big. My hands, clammy with sweat, tightened around my walking stick, a sturdy branch I’d picked up on day one. It felt flimsy now, no match for those claws.
“Hey,” I said, my voice shaky, barely above a whisper. “Stay back. I’m not food.”
The lion didn’t move, just stared, its growl low and guttural, vibrating in the air. I took a slow step back, my boots scraping the dirt. My eyes stayed on its face, on those sharp, gleaming teeth. I could see every detail—the way its whiskers twitched, the faint scars on its muzzle. It crouched lower, ready to spring. My stomach twisted. I was alone, no cell signal, no one to hear me scream. The nearest ranger station was a day’s hike away. I thought about climbing a tree, but mountain lions climb better than humans. Running was suicide—they’re faster, stronger. My mind raced, grasping for options, finding none.
The lion leaped down from the ledge, landing silently on the trail. Dust puffed around its paws. It was closer now, maybe ten feet away, its ears flat, tail lashing. I stumbled back, my stick raised, heart pounding so hard it hurt. “Get back!” I shouted, my voice cracking. I waved the stick, trying to look bigger, but it felt useless, like waving a twig at a storm. The lion took another step, its growl deeper, more menacing. I tripped over a root, catching myself against a tree, the rough bark scraping my palm. My pack felt like a weight dragging me down, but I didn’t dare drop it. The lion’s eyes never left mine, cold and focused, like it was measuring the distance to my throat.
Then came a sound that stopped my breath—a deep, earth-shaking roar, like thunder rolling through the trees. The lion froze, its ears twitching. From the dense pines to my left, a massive shape exploded onto the trail. A bear, enormous, its dark brown fur bristling, its paws the size of hubcaps. Its head was low, mouth open, showing teeth as long as my fingers. My legs turned to jelly. Two predators now, and me in the middle. The bear didn’t even glance at me. It charged the lion, roaring again, a sound that rattled my bones.
The lion hissed, swiping a paw, claws flashing. The bear didn’t flinch. It slammed into the lion, a blur of fur and muscle, the impact so hard I felt the ground shake. They rolled in the dirt, snarling, clawing, a tangle of teeth and power. Dust clouded the air, stinging my eyes. I staggered back, my stick slipping from my sweaty hands. The lion yowled, a sharp, desperate sound, and broke free, scrambling up the trail. Its tail was low, ears pinned as it vanished into the trees, leaving only the echo of its retreat.
The bear stood, shaking its massive head, fur rippling. Then it turned to me. My breath stopped. Its eyes were dark, deep, impossible to read. Its muzzle was wet, flecked with dirt, and its chest heaved from the fight. I pressed myself against the tree, the bark digging into my back. My hands shook so hard I could barely hold them up. “Please,” I whispered, my voice barely a breath. “Don’t come closer.”
The bear took a step toward me, its paws silent on the dirt. I braced myself, expecting it to charge, to finish what the lion started. But it stopped, maybe five feet away, and just stood there, watching. Its head tilted slightly, nostrils flaring as it sniffed the air. My heart was a hammer in my chest, my mouth dry as sand. I didn’t dare move, didn’t dare blink. The forest was silent now, no birds, no wind, just the faint rustle of leaves under the bear’s weight. Its eyes held mine, steady, almost curious, like it was deciding what I was.
Seconds stretched into minutes. My legs ached from standing so still, my arms numb from holding them up. The bear snorted, a low, rumbling sound that made me flinch. It shifted its weight, claws scraping the ground, and I thought it was over. But instead of lunging, it sat back on its haunches, its massive bulk settling like a boulder. It didn’t growl, didn’t bare its teeth. It just watched, its breath slow and heavy, steam rising from its nose in the cool air.
I didn’t know what to do. My mind screamed to run, but my body wouldn’t move. “What do you want?” I whispered, more to myself than the bear. It didn’t react, just kept staring, its eyes glinting in the dim light filtering through the pines. The forest started to come alive again—crickets chirping, a distant owl hooting, the soft creak of branches. I glanced at the trail, wondering if I could slip away, but the bear’s presence pinned me in place. It wasn’t threatening, not exactly, but it wasn’t leaving either.
Time dragged. My arms dropped, too tired to stay raised. The bear didn’t move. My pack felt heavier, the straps cutting into my shoulders. I thought about my life—my job, my apartment, the fight with my brother that sent me out here to escape. None of it mattered now. All that existed was this bear, this moment, and the question of whether I’d walk away.
Then I heard it—voices, faint but human, coming from down the trail. The bear’s ears twitched, its head turning slightly. I held my breath. Headlights flickered through the trees, faint at first, then stronger. The bear stood, its movements slow, deliberate. It gave me one last look, those dark eyes unreadable, then turned and lumbered into the forest. Its massive form melted into the shadows, silent as a ghost, leaving only the faint snap of a twig.
“Hey! Anyone out there?” a man’s voice called, closer now. Flashlights swept the trail, and I saw two figures—rangers, their green uniforms catching the light.
“Here!” I shouted, my voice hoarse, cracking. I stumbled forward, my legs weak, my pack dragging. They ran toward me, one with a radio crackling, the other carrying a rifle.
“You okay?” the older one asked, his gray beard catching the light. His eyes scanned me, then the trail. “What happened? You’re white as a sheet.”
I collapsed onto a rock, my breath coming in gasps. “Mountain lion,” I said. “It was… it was going to attack. Then a bear came. It chased the lion off.”
The younger ranger, a woman with a tight ponytail, raised an eyebrow. “A bear? You sure?”
I nodded, my hands still shaking as I pointed to the scuffed dirt, the claw marks in the dust. “It fought the lion. Then it just… stood there, watching me, until you showed up.”
The older ranger knelt, inspecting the ground. “Tracks,” he said, tracing a massive paw print with his finger. “Big ones. Grizzly, maybe. And these—mountain lion, no doubt.” He stood, shaking his head. “You’re damn lucky. Lions don’t back off easy, and bears don’t usually play hero.”
“Lucky,” I repeated, the word hollow. I didn’t feel lucky. I felt like I’d been spared by something I couldn’t understand, something wild and ancient.
“Stay here,” the woman said, handing me a water bottle. “We’ll radio for a truck. You need to get out of here.”
I nodded, gulping the water, my throat burning. “Do bears… do they do that? Save people?”
The older ranger shrugged, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. “Bears do what they want. Could’ve been protecting its territory, didn’t like the lion sniffing around. Or maybe it just didn’t see you as a threat. Either way, you’re here, so don’t question it.”
They led me to their jeep, parked a half-mile down the trail. The ride to the ranger station was bumpy, the headlights cutting through the dark. I kept looking out the window, half-expecting to see those yellow eyes or the bear’s hulking shape in the trees. At the station, they gave me coffee and a blanket, and I told the story again, every detail—the lion’s growl, the bear’s roar, the way the forest held its breath. The rangers listened, scribbling notes, their faces a mix of disbelief and awe.
“We’ll send a team to check the area,” the older ranger said. “If that lion’s still around, we need to know. And that bear… well, it’s got a story now.”
I stayed at the station until dawn, too wired to sleep. When a truck took me to town, I kept replaying the moment—the lion’s stare, the bear’s sudden charge, those long minutes when it just watched me. I haven’t gone back to those mountains. I don’t know if I ever will. But sometimes, at night, I hear that roar in my dreams, and I wonder what made that bear choose me.
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