Andrew's report hit the private ward like a cold wind. “Tracks, Alpha. Fresh. She left the service road and headed north-by-east. They cut straight into the old preserve."
Wilson was already on his feet. The machines in the corner kept their dutiful, indifferent beeping for Yvonne's sprained wrist; the IV stand etched a shadow across the tile. Rain scratched at the window like a bad memory trying to get back in.
“The preserve?" he asked.
Andrew nodded once. “Boundary markers past mile four. Rogues' border sign is gone. Either wind took it, or they did."
“That line is a sieve," one of the guards muttered. “Half their strays nest in there."
Yvonne's voice, papery and sweet, tugged at his sleeve. “You don't have to go," she breathed. “It's late. It's raining. Let the men—"
“She's mine,"
