“We can’t stay here,” Wade murmured, stashing the journal in his jacket. Glancing at the moose, he tried a desperate guess: “You know where to go, don’t you?” Though it felt absurd—speaking to a wild animal—he believed the moose understood. It swung its massive head, pointing its nose westward.
They left the campsite behind, forging a path through thicker brush. Wade gripped a stout branch in case of trouble, forcing himself onward despite fatigue and fear. The moose trudged ahead, occasionally pausing to sniff at the ground. At times, it moaned in pain, but it pressed forward.