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“Don’t move,” Lena whispered.

Margaret’s voice came out small at first. “Hey, Pretty Girl. Mornin’, sweet pea.” The same singsong phrases she’d heard her son say a hundred times. “Don’t move,” Lena whispered

She didn’t just see a limping dog or a goat that wouldn’t eat. She saw the story behind the symptom. Pretty Girl. Mornin’

Lena grabbed her bag. In twenty years, she’d heard “trying to kill” applied to stallions, roosters, and one memorable pet raccoon. Never a llama. The Heston ranch was quiet when she arrived. Too quiet. Normally, ranch dogs barked, goats bleated, and somewhere a tractor cougued to life. Today, the air hung still and heavy. ranch dogs barked