Chapter 3: Waiting for Help
Catherine stood frozen, her hand still on the door. The cub had not moved, its small body curled tightly against the wall, still trembling slightly under the weight of the morning sun. But the sound—the faint scrape—was there again. This time, it was louder, more deliberate, as if something, or someone, was testing the boundaries of her home. She stepped back, her breath shallow, her mind racing with questions.
Was it just the wind? Or was there something else out there?
She glanced at the cub, still half-hidden in the shadows. Her first impulse was to go outside, to check if anyone—or anything—was near the porch. But she knew the rules. She knew the dangers of walking into the wild without understanding what lurked beyond. She’d spent enough time in nature to know that sometimes it wasn’t the animals you could see that were the most dangerous—it was the ones you couldn’t.
The cub, though small and vulnerable, didn’t appear to be alarmed. Its amber eyes followed Catherine’s every movement, but it remained still, as though it knew it was safe for now. There was a strange kind of trust in its gaze. It made Catherine wonder how long it had been alone, how long it had been wandering without its mother.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she quickly pulled it out. It was the ranger station.
“Catherine, we’ve got your call,” the young voice on the other end said. “We’ll send someone over as soon as we can, but it’ll be a while—there’s a situation near the east fence we’re dealing with.”
Catherine bit her lip. “I understand. But this cub… it’s in bad shape. I don’t know how much longer it can wait.” Her voice cracked with the weight of her concern.
“We’ll try to get someone to you as soon as possible,” the ranger promised. “Just stay clear of it in the meantime. Don’t feed it or try to handle it. I know it’s tough, but it’s the best way to help.”
She hung up, the weight of their words sinking in. Don’t feed it. Don’t touch it. Don’t interfere. The same rules she had taught others for years. But her instincts were at war with her training. The cub was so small, so helpless. How could she stand by and watch it suffer?
She glanced back at the cub, her heart tight in her chest. It hadn’t moved since it drank the water. Was it sleeping, or just too weak to move? She couldn’t tell, but the stillness of it made her uneasy.
The minutes stretched on, and Catherine paced between the kitchen and the living room, trying to distract herself from the gnawing feeling of helplessness. She couldn’t shake the sense that something was wrong, that she needed to act.
Then, a rustling sound came from outside, a low, almost inaudible crackle of movement in the brush. It was coming from the direction of the trees.
Catherine’s breath hitched.
Her mind raced, and her pulse quickened. Was it the cub’s mother? Or something else, something far more dangerous?
Catherine moved toward the window, her heart pounding in her chest. Through the trees, beyond the brush, she thought she saw a shadow shift.
Something was out there.
And it was close.
Her instincts screamed at her to leave the safety of her house, but the question lingered: Was it the mother leopard, or was it something far more sinister?
Before she could answer her own question, the sound came again—closer now.