On his back, holding on for dear life, Sarah could only clutch at his fur and dig her thighs into his back to keep from getting thrown off. The gun on her back lifted and slapped her shoulders each time Dylan leapt or avoided a tree branch, and she felt like her whole body was bruised all over, just an inundation of aches and pains and the slow attrition of weariness. She glanced behind her a few times but the way Dylan was moving, there was no way the other poacher would be able to keep up. Not at this rate, but they were leaving a very distinct trail through the undergrowth. As a bear, he was unaccustomed to using the trails, preferring the straightest line from point A to point B. As a result, a wake of broken branches and tracks lay out behind them like breadcrumbs or Theseus’ golden thread. “Dylan, wait… wait, please,” she tried to whisper in the grizzly’s ear, but he was inconsolable. She could only hold on, burying her face against his fur.
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