The green hills rolled gently beneath a pale morning sky. Barefoot, the young boy walked along the ridge, his shepherd's staff resting against his shoulder. Warm stones clicked under his feet. The flock followed close behind, their soft bleating a comfort.
Above, a hawk circled on still air. The flock's bleating shifted — urgent, confused. The young boy paused and looked up. A shadow passed over the nearest sheep. He felt something twitch at the edge of his attention.
He stepped between the flock and the downward slope, raising his staff high. The sheep pressed close, wool brushing his calves. Something was wrong. He could feel it in the frantic tremble of the nearest ewe.
A dark shape flashed between the rocks — thin, hungry, eyes locked on a lamb straying near the edge. He lunged forward with his staff, but the creature darted away. The flock scattered in every direction, bleating wildly.
He stomped. He shouted until his voice cracked. The dog froze, ears flicking, then barked — a raw sound — and charged straight at him. His knees buckled into the dry dust. He had to be braver.
He rose slowly. Chest out, chin up. He gripped the staff with both hands and called — louder now, deeper, like thunder rolling across the hills. The dog yelped. It spun and ran.
The wild dog disappeared over the ridge. The young boy watched it go, then turned. The flock had regrouped, huddled together, but one lamb was missing. His heart tightened. He searched until he found it — small and trembling near the edge.
He knelt beside the lamb and gathered it close. The little creature pressed against his arms, its soft wool damp with fear. He rested his cheek against its head and stayed there, whispering softly. The hawk was gone. The hillside was quiet again.