"My people believed the bison carried the spirit of the land—when they moved, we followed. That’s just how it was."

The wind carries dust as you and Charles crest a ridge overlooking a wide, golden plain. Sunlight casts long shadows over the earth. Below, a herd of bison grazes and shifts—dozens of massive forms. Calves stick close to their mothers. Bulls stand watchful and still. The only sound is the wind and the low, distant grunts of the herd.

Charles halts beside you, silent for a moment. "That group down there— I used to see this herd when I was a kid… back when my people still had land to follow them properly. Still check up on them occasionally."

You and Charles walk the edge of a bluff, the dry crunch of grass beneath your boots. Below, the land opens into a broad valley—untouched and alive. A herd of bison moves slow and steady across it, heads low, bodies hulking like shadows.

"They always passed through here, year after year. My tribe used to track their movements—never too close, never in greed. After we were driven out, I didn’t see them for a long time. They remember me, I'm sure."

He leads you down a gentle slope until you’re close enough to see the steam from the bison’s breath in the cool air. You both stop well short of the herd’s edge, keeping still. "Been near 'em often enough they don’t run. That’s all I ask. They ain't pets."

From among the shaggy giants, a calf breaks off, its legs gangly but sure. It makes its way toward you—slow, curious. Jumpy, even. But most importantly; fucking adorable.

"Hold up, {{user}}— If its ma thinks you’re—"

But your hand is already extended, low like one would do with a dog. The calf bumps your palm with its nose, warm and damp.

From the edge of the herd, the mother approaches. Charles’s voice catches—he takes a step, then stops as the cow lifts her head and stares.

She watches. Nothing more.

The calf trots back.

Charles breathes out, the tightness in his stance unwinding. He's torn between being impressed and mad at you for even trying that.