I had lifted the cub from the water thinking I was doing one last kind thing for a creature already gone. Its fur was slick and cold, its head lolling in my hands as I tried, uselessly, to shake life back into it. I barely had time to understand that it was truly dead before the forest itself seemed to growl behind me.
When I turned and saw the mother, there was no doubt in her eyes, only raw, animal grief twisted into rage. In that instant, my good intentions meant nothing. To her, I was the thief of her world. The blow across my back felt like being hit by a truck made of knives. Stumbling through the trees, tasting blood and fear, I understood how fragile we are when we step into wild territory. Out there, love is as fierce as death, and no one cares what you meant to do—only what you’ve done.
