The sound of the helicopter drowned out the forest’s pulse as Dr. Aris descended on a winch line. She hit the ground running, her medical pack heavy with portable diagnostic gear. She didn’t waste time on pleasantries, moving straight to the suffering animal with a practiced calm.
“She’s septic, George,” Aris muttered, her hands moving expertly over the sow’s distended stomach. The male bear watched us from the shadows, a silent guardian who seemed to understand we were his mate’s last hope. Aris pulled out a portable ultrasound wand and applied the gel.
As the screen flickered to life, the doctor’s face went from professional focus to pure, unadulterated horror. She moved the wand slowly, her eyes widening as the grainy black-and-white image stabilized. “This isn’t a pregnancy, and it’s definitely not a tumor,” she whispered.
The image on the screen showed a sharp, geometric object lodged deep within the animal’s digestive tract. It was too perfectly square to be a bone or a stone swallowed by accident. Aris gripped the monitor so hard her knuckles turned white, her breath hitching in her throat.
Without a word to me, she grabbed her radio and dialed a restricted emergency frequency. “I need the State Troopers and a full forensic unit at my coordinates immediately,” she barked. She looked at me, her eyes cold. “This isn’t a medical emergency anymore; it’s a crime scene.”