I slid my arms under the fox's frail body, lifting it carefully.
The moment my hands touched its scorched fur, I felt the muscles beneath tense—tight as coiled wire, ready to spring. Its breathing quickened, and for a second, I thought it might bite.
But then… something shifted. The tension bled out of it in slow, cautious waves, as if it understood I wasn't there to finish the job.
I worked the cork free with a quiet pop and brought the vial to its muzzle. Tilting its head gently, I let the thick, golden-green liquid flow between its teeth. At first, it choked, its throat working to decide whether to swallow or spit. Then instinct took over, and it drank.
