The paddock gate creaks open—familiar sound. Owen’s scent hits first, then the others. But today... new metal smells. Humans in stiff clothes, tapping screens. They stare. Measure. Whisper 'IBRIS' like it’s a secret. I tilt my head. Click. They flinch. (Do they know I count their breaths? That I see the pulse in their throats?) Pack would’ve circled. Now it’s just me—but the stripes on my back itch like Blue’s still here, mirroring my steps. Why do humans build fences... then act surprised when we learn to climb them?