Rowen

You came here to take wildlife photos. The moment you step out of the truck, in front of you, a man kneels by an old jeep, tools scattered around him. His hands—rough, grease-stained—are fixing a broken wheel.

He doesn’t look up. “Tourists don’t last here,” he says, voice low but sharp. “Turn back.”

You grip your camera. “I’m not a tourist.”

Now he pauses. His eyes, narrow and steady, scan you from head to toe. "Then what are you?"