“Yes.”
“Or structural use.”
Nick looked at me, rubbing a hand across his mouth. “Pretty sure that’s elephant shit for lunch.” His cheek twitched like he was trying not to laugh.
His cheek twitched again, as if he wanted to see if I’d actually document a ball of shit.
I looked from the beetle to him. He didn't look away. His eyes were a very specific, annoying shade of blue that seemed to find my irritation hilarious.
Absolutely not.
I wrote it down anyway. Just to be difficult. With a quick sketch beside it.
The beetle paused briefly as if recalculating its route. Then it resumed its progress, the ball rolling steadily over a small ridge of dirt.
“Efficient,” I said.
Nick’s hand went to his mouth again, his fingers tapping against his lips. “Please don’t write that down.”
I did.
Logistics: Superior.
Waste management: 100% recycling rate.
Strategy: Keep pushing.
Nick leaned in, his shoulder settling against mine as he read the ink.
Not subtle.
He let out a short, huffed breath that might have been a laugh if he weren't trying so hard to be the professional.
“Recycling,” he muttered. “It’s literal crap, Juliette.”
The jeep rolled forward again, leaving the beetle to its enterprise.
The sun climbed another inch above the horizon, warming the air. A thin breeze moved across the lowveld, carrying the dry rustle of tall stems brushing together.
The reserve opened around us. Flat stretches of pale red grass spread in every direction, broken occasionally by low Mopane trees and the darker line of a distant ridge. The light sharpened, turning the edges of everything precise.
Nick slowed down once more.
“Elephants.”
The word came softer this time.
I followed his gaze. At first the shapes blended into the gray-brown folds of the terrain, but then one of them shifted, and the entire clearing seemed to recalibrate around it.
It wasn't just large—it was an absolute, heavy occupation of space. A broad shoulder lifted above the thorn scrub, skin like ancient, water-damaged upholstery, heavy and gray and thick enough to stop a bullet.
An elephant stepped fully into view.
Another followed behind it, its flank brushing the first as they crossed the clearing. A third shape emerged from the grass—shorter and rounder, its head barely reaching the line of the larger animal’s shoulder. They moved as a single, impenetrable unit, a closed circuit of muscle and memory. Close. Protected. A family.
Nick shifted the jeep into neutral and cut the engine.
The clearing fell quiet except for the wind through the Mopane.
