Ever so slowly, it dipped its massive head, the coarse fur of its muzzle brushing against Wade’s thigh. Instinct told him to recoil—this was a wild animal, after all—but the softness of that fleeting touch was startling. Milo remained silent yet visibly alert, tail stiff, as if he too recognized the creature’s pain.
Time seemed to stretch thin, every breath magnified in Wade’s lungs. He stared at the trembling sides of the moose, taking in the wounded leg that glistened darkly beneath the moon’s feeble glow. A conflict raged inside him: flight or compassion, terror or empathy. In that moment, his empathy won.