Page 6 of Easy, Tiger

The morning air delivers autumn's crisp promise as I follow the creek upstream, leaving the maintained paths for deer trails that wind between towering pines and granite outcroppings. My boots find sure purchase on moss-covered stones while water chatters over polished rocks worn by decades of mountain runoff.

Three hours in, I've sketched a family of chipmunks preparing their winter cache and documented the intricate bark patterns of an ancient oak that's probably been overseeing this valley since before Red Pine existed. The solitude feeds something in me that town life, however welcoming, can't quite reach.

The creek bends around a huge boulder, and I follow its curve, already planning my next sketching spot. Water pools in a natural basin here, creating a mirror that reflects the canopy overhead. The lighting is perfect and the setting is peaceful. It is precisely the spot I've been hoping to find all week.

That's when I see him.

A massive tiger lies crumpled beside the water's edge, orange and black stripes stark against the autumn leaves scattered around his body. Blood mattes the fur along his left shoulder, and the copper tang of blood catches in the back of my throat.

"Oh, God."

My sketchbook tumbles from numb fingers. Every wilderness safety protocol I've ever half-remembered screams through my head at once: refrain from approaching a wounded predator; back away slowly. This is exactly how people end up on the news. But my mind flashes back to the summers I spent volunteering at the large-animal rescue outside the city. I’d helped the vet techs triage panicking cougars and tranquilized bears. I know the signs of an animal too weak to fight, and I know how to apply pressure to a catastrophic bleed. His sides rise and fall in shallow, uneven breaths, and something about the immobility of him, the sheer defenselessness of an animal this size lying broken beside a creek, makes retreat impossible.

Instead, my boots inch closer, one cautious step at a time, while my pulse roars in my own ears. Tigers are entirely foreign to these mountains, yet here one lies, bleeding out beside a Pennsylvania creek like the forest conjured him out of nowhere. When I'm close enough to see the wound clearly, some of the panic in my chest eases. The bullet caught him high in the shoulder, shattering the scapula and mangling the muscle. It’s a devastating wound—the kind of trauma that would take months of recovery, assuming the animal didn't bleed out or succumb to infection first.

Someone shot him. The thought cements itself as something colder than fear.

I sink to my knees beside him, using the same voice that calms skittish birds. "Easy, beautiful. I'm not going to hurt you."

Amber depths unveil themselves beneath parting lids, burning with an intelligence I've never seen in wild animals. Regard for me, something approaching recognition, shimmers in his gaze, while every instinct I possess screams that this moment matters, though I couldn't explain how or why.

My hands shake as I strip off my flannel shirt, leaving me in only a tank top while the mountain air bites at my exposed arms. Every nature documentary I've ever watched warns against approaching wounded predators. But those eyes reveal no malice, conveying only pain alongside something that disturbingly resembles trust.

"This is going to hurt," I warn, using my shirt to apply pressure around the wound. "But we need to stop the bleeding first."

The tiger's head lifts, monitoring me work despite his injuries. Blood seeps through the fabric, warm and sticky against my palms, and my heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat as I examine the entry point, a clean hole that suggests high-powered rifles and deliberate aim.

"Someone hunted you. In these mountains where you don't belong, someone still thought you deserved a bullet."

Digging through my pack with trembling fingers, I whip out the small first aid kit that seemed excessive when I packed it this morning. The tweezers appear pathetically inadequate for what I'm attempting, but the wound is shallower than I first feared, the bullet having lodged merely beneath the surface of the muscle instead of burying deep into his shoulder.

"Easy, beautiful. I need to get this out, or infection will finish what that bastard started."

His breathing stutters when metal meets metal inside the wound, yet he wills himself into immobility. Keeping his canines hidden, he never once swipes at me with claws that could open my throat before I could register the movement. Instead, he maintains his silent vigil, more patient than any wild animal has business being, while I work the bullet free.

"Got it." The slug rolls into my palm, copper-jacketed and still warm. I slide the metal into my pocket. "Whoever did this knows their way around a rifle."

Tears track down my cheeks as I work, the thought of this magnificent creature dying out here alone squeezing my chest. Cleaning the devastating wound takes my entire water supply and half the antiseptic wipes meant for minor cuts and scrapes. When I'm done, the edges gape wider than I'd like, the shattered bone sitting dangerously close to the surface. Digging out a small sewing kit kept for torn straps, I thread a needle with unsteady hands and pull the worst of the wound closed with three rough stitches. It's clumsy work, more butterfly closure than surgery, but it should stabilize him until whatever passes for healing in an animal this size takes over.

The tiger's muscles bunch beneath striped fur with every pass of the needle, but he endures it, teeth clenched, eyes fixed on me like he understands exactly what I'm doing and why.

"You're not exactly standard Pennsylvania wildlife, are you?" Securing gauze against the cleaned wound, I apply constant pressure while his breathing gradually evens out. "Tigers belong in Asia, far from the Appalachians. Yet here you are, bleeding beside a creek like you own these mountains."

Those golden eyes drift closed as exhaustion finally claims him, but his breathing strengthens with each passing hour. Slumping against a nearby boulder, I keep guard while afternoon shadows lengthen around us. Every so often his ear twitches toward some sound I can't hear, some small proof he's attuned to the forest even in sleep, and it eases something tight in my chest to know he isn't as helpless as he appears. Whatever brought this magnificent creature to these woods, whatever hunter thought his death worth celebrating, they hadn't counted on a disgraced illustrator with nothing left to lose stumbling across their handiwork.

Hours pass in a rhythm of checking bandages and offering water from my cupped palms. The tiger accepts both so tranquilly that it stirs something unnameable deep inside me. Each time consciousness returns, he watches me like he's following the conversation, alert in a way that feels almost human.

"You're welcome," I murmur during one of his wakeful periods, replacing blood-soaked gauze with fresh strips torn from my spare shirt. "Though I'm not sure what kind of thanks I'm expecting from an animal who could turn me into lunch without breaking a sweat."

His ears twitch at my voice, and I swear something like amusement flickers across his face before exhaustion overtakes him again.

The afternoon stretches into evening while I maintain my vigil beside the creek. My stomach protests the missed meals, but leaving feels impossible. This creature trusted me enough to remain calm during amateur surgery performed with tweezers and antiseptic wipes. The least I can do is ensure he doesn't wake up alone and vulnerable.

"Whoever shot you made a serious mistake," I tell him during another brief awakening, offering more water. "These mountains don't need hunters who target magnificent creatures simply because they can."

Those intelligent pools capture my reflection before closing again. His breathing has strengthened considerably since morning, and the bleeding has finally stopped. Whatever resilience tigers possess, this one has it in abundance.

Darkness creeps between the trees as the sun disappears behind the mountain peaks. The temperature falls with the light, and I dig the spare jacket out of my pack, grateful for once that I overprepare for these hikes, and yank it tight while staying vigilant. Mountain weather in autumn is deceptive—warm enough to break a sweat in the direct afternoon sun, but plunging near freezing the second the light vanishes, especially as the season moves along. The tiger stirs more frequently now, testing his strength through small movements that signal returning vitality.