Faiza Abid--When Hunger Draws Near

That winter, the snow was more than a season; it was a vast, white erasure. It swallowed the slopes, the stone markers, and the familiar trails I once navigated by instinct alone. The world had fallen into a silence that didn’t feel like peace—it felt like a held breath.

I led the flock out anyway. They were restless with hunger, and I harbored a thin hope of finding a patch of yellowed grass spared by the gale. The air was a blade against my skin, and with every step, the drifts pulled at my boots, trying to claim me. I remember the weight of my coat, the rhythmic crunch of ice, and the way I began to listen with my whole body.

He was close enough for me to see the hollows of his flanks and the way his ribs sharply traced the line of his matted fur. He didn’t snarl. He simply moved with a terrifying, slow-motion grace before lowering himself into the white. His gaze remained fixed on the sheep—unblinking, golden, and hollowed out by a desperate need.

In that frozen second, I felt the warmth drain from my fingers. My grip on my staff turned brittle. I forced myself to draw a breath that tasted of iron.

I shouted. My voice felt small, a mere splinter against the vastness of the mountain. I raised my arms, trying to project a shadow larger than my trembling frame, and took a single, defiant step forward.

The wolf recoiled, then turned and ascended a low rise, melting into the grey horizon. I allowed myself the fleeting luxury of a sigh, believing the encounter had passed.

He tilted his head back, offering a long, jagged howl to the leaden sky. It was a sound that didn’t just reach my ears; it vibrated in my marrow. It was a summons.

They appeared like ghosts conjured from the mist. One by one, three more wolves emerged from different quarters, staying low and steady. They didn’t rush. They had the agonizing patience of the starving. They began to drift into a wide arc, closing the distance with the quiet precision of a trap.

I backed toward the flock, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. The sheep surged against one another, a sea of wool and panic. I called for my dogs—my voice raw this time, stripped of any pretense of control.

The Salukis burst from the center of the huddle like lightning striking from a cloud. They lunged with a grim, focused intensity. The wolves hesitated. The circle wavered, then fractured as the predators pulled back.

A sudden whiteout lashed my face, stinging my eyes and erasing the world. The sheep began to scatter, blinded and panicked. I ran into the blur, pushing, calling, pulling them back together. My legs turned heavy, and I slipped again and again into the freezing snow. In those moments, I wasn’t thinking of the wolves—I was thinking of losing the path home.

After an eternity, the dogs returned to my side. The wolves had vanished into the grey.

Together, we gathered the broken flock into a single trembling mass. Step by step, against the wind, we fought our way forward until the shape of home finally appeared through the snow.

When I finally closed the door behind us, I wasn’t only shaking from the cold. I was shaking from the realization of how thin the line is between the protector and the protected.

That day, I understood that hunger is not an emotion. It is a direction. It does not wait for permission or the perfect moment.

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