The elephants moved slowly across the space, their massive feet pressing silent circles into the dust. One lifted its trunk, testing the air.
“How close do they get to people?”
Nick kept his eyes on the animals.
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“Everything.”
The largest elephant paused and lifted its ears once—broad, deliberate. The others stopped behind it.
I lowered the notebook.
The animal stood perfectly still in the center of the clearing, immense and unmoving, as if the morning had paused to wait for its decision.
The wind shifted.
The elephant’s trunk moved again, slow and curious.
“How fast can they run?”
Nick didn’t take his eyes off the animal. “Faster than you.”
I considered that. “Useful context.”
The elephant took a step toward the vehicle. Dust lifted around its feet in soft, pale clouds with every slow, deliberate step.
Nick didn’t move. Only his hands changed, tendons tightening against the wheel as the rest of him went unnervingly still.
“How intelligent are they?”
“Very.”
“Individual memory?”
“Yes.”
“Who gives the signal?”
Nick looked at me, a brief, dry flash of amusement breaking his stare. “Juliette?”
“Yes.”
"They aren't on the payroll. They aren't going to answer you."
The elephant closed the gap in three silent strides, its size made more terrifying by how little noise it needed to make. It turned a single, dark eye toward the jeep—a wet, reflective obsidian that seemed to be indexing us. For a heartbeat, only the rustle of its ears and the sudden spike of my own heart rate filled the clearing.
For a moment the clearing held perfectly still.
Wind through scrub. The faint creak of the vehicle’s cooling metal.
The elephant raised its trunk.
Closer.
Nick’s hand moved once to the ignition key—but he didn’t turn it.
