The dunes faded behind him.
His gaze crossed another horizon.
The tiger found the giraffe before he found the water.
Beyond the fences and a stretch of dry grass, four legs carried an animal that continued upward for a considerable distance. He followed it with his eyes until he reached the head. The head was eating a tree.
He sat down to examine the arrangement.
The Wrong Turning
He had arrived at Wadi Nara that afternoon, in a transport crate containing one tiger, one worn sleeping mat, and rather more sand than anyone had packed.
Months earlier, illegal traders had brought him from Asia to North Africa. After his rescue, a veterinary team had begun moving him to a rehabilitation centre. A sandstorm closed their road. The diversion led to an old track, and the old track eventually led to a driver unfolding his map beside the bonnet.
“That well should have been on our left.”
The other keeper looked behind them.
“It was. Some time ago.”
They radioed for directions. By afternoon, the dunes had given way to scattered trees, stone buildings, and the temporary holding yard at Wadi Nara sanctuary. The onward journey would wait until morning.
The tiger had made none of these arrangements.
A Noisy Welcome
His crate had been secured against the shelter’s transfer gate. From the protected service passage, a keeper raised its door, opening a way into the enclosed yard.
The tiger put out one paw. The ground held. He added the other, then brought the rest of himself through.
Warm dust pressed between his toes. Somewhere beyond the yard, water carried a smell of reeds. He turned toward it, ears moving separately as birds called from places he could not yet locate.
Above the shelter, a loose corner of canvas cracked in the wind.
He swung around and returned to the crate. His tail disappeared last.
The keeper followed his glance to the roof. She gathered the loose rope from outside the fence and fastened it to its hook. The canvas tightened. At the next gust, it stirred without snapping.
Inside the crate, a striped forehead appeared beneath the raised door.
Then the paws came out again.
Along the Fence
This time, he went past the shelter. He followed the fence to a stone trough, sniffed its rim, and drank. A drop hung from his chin while he inspected the corner beyond it.
He walked the yard’s edges, pausing at a tuft of grass and a lizard that promptly withdrew its contribution to the afternoon. At the far fence, he stopped beneath a low tree. Its shade reached across the ground, well clear of the canvas.
In the service passage, the keeper lifted a clean mat from a shelf.
“Shall we replace the old one when he’s out of the shelter?”
Her colleague looked toward the crate. The tiger had returned to it. He lowered his nose to the worn mat, pressed one paw into its familiar hollow, and rubbed his cheek along the edge.
“Leave that one for tonight.”
She set the clean roll back on the shelf.
The tiger caught a corner of his mat between his teeth. It caught briefly on the threshold. He backed up, changed his grip, and pulled until it slid free.
Outside, he dragged it past the shelter and across his own footprints. The keepers watched him stop beneath the low tree. He released the corner, turned once, and lay down with his forepaws resting on the fabric.
The Evening View
By dusk, the yard had cooled. The transport crate remained open beside the shelter, its sleeping hollow empty. Beneath the tree, the tiger washed one dusty paw and tucked it under his chest.
Far beyond the fence, the giraffe returned to the same tree. It reached a branch the tiger had not noticed was available for eating.
He opened one eye and followed the neck upward again.
The animal still wasn’t finished.
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