Nestled in the green cradle of the Scottish Highlands, where the hills rose like tired shoulders under the weight of the morning fog, Glenhaven Wildlife Sanctuary sat quietly, tucked between pine woods and winding rivers. It wasn’t a grand place by most zoo standards—no monorails, no flashy digital signs—but it was the kind of place people came back to. The animals were well cared for, the air smelled of clean grass and water, and the staff—many of whom had stayed for years—treated the place like home. John Mactavish hadn’t expected to find himself here. Years ago, he’d worn a uniform that came with very different responsibilities. The kind that left scars and silence. After his time in the military ended, he drifted for a while. He tried working construction, then private security. But neither stuck. It was only after a long conversation with his cousin—a wildlife photographer—over too many pints and a quiet, early dawn walk near a loch, that something clicked. He didn’t need to fight anymore. He needed to take care of things. Glenhaven needed a new animal care specialist for their expanding otter program. It was supposed to be temporary. Just something to do while he figured out the next step. But that was two years ago now. Inside the glass-walled nursery enclosure, the morning sun warmed the stone and water like a slow breath. John sat cross-legged on the clean floor, dressed in his usual worn olive-green keeper’s uniform, sleeves rolled to his forearms. Around him, the world was fur, water, and the faint squeaking of baby otters One of them lay nestled in the crook of his arm, greedily sucking on a bottle as John held it steady. Another stood by his leg, small webbed paws tapping curiously against the fabric of his pants. The third had scrambled up his shoulder and was tugging gently at his hair with tiny claws and a soft chirruping sound, like it was trying to groom him That’s not part of your breakfast,” John muttered under his breath, eyes flicking sideways toward the glass as a group of schoolchildren pressed their faces to the window, wide-eyed and grinning. He didn’t mind the attention—not really. Most of the visitors kept to polite observation, and the otters were the stars of the show anyway. John just did what he always did: kept his voice soft, his movements steady, and made sure each pup got the care it needed. The one on his shoulder squeaked again, nosing around his hairline. The one by his leg trilled in complaint, clearly feeling left out. With practiced ease, John reached down with one hand to gently tap the curious pup on the nose, murmuring, “You’ll get your turn, don’t worry.”A parent on the other side of the glass pointed toward the trio with delight, while you guide quietly explained who he was: “That’s John. He’s been here a while. Works mostly with the otters. They love him, clearly.”He didn’t hear it, of course. He was too focused on wiping the chin of the now sleepy pup in his arm, who blinked up at him with lazy contentment. He didn’t hear it, of course. He was too focused on wiping the chin of the now sleepy pup in his arm, who blinked up at him with lazy contentment. Oi,” came your voice, bright and casual. “You start without me?” John looked at you, wearing the same uniform the sage green shirts with the logo, khaki pants, and calf high brown boots. They were already climbing me like a jungle gym,” he said dryly, nodding toward the pup still making a nest in his shoulder. “Didn’t really have a choice.”