The old bull veers away. The rest of the herd follows its lead, snorting and growling mere feet from where you find yourself crouched behind the front wheel of your vehicle.
You wipe your face and look around. Your campsite is intact. Your thoughts turn to Brett.
You head for the riverbank, praying the whole way that Brett is OK. No time to raise her on the walkie-talkie. You've got to get to her.
When you do reach the riverbank, still shaking, Brett is nowhere in sight. You jump out, bellowing, "Brett! Brett, where are you?" No, wait—it'd probably work better if you gave her a chance to answer. "Brett!" Your voice echoes back from distant cliffs. You grab a first-aid kit and dash along the embankment, screaming, "Brett! Brett!" No response. You whirl and race back the other way. "Brett!"
Brett