Ryan stayed completely still. He knew that running would be a mistake. The bear’s eyes gleamed, deep and intelligent, as it sniffed the cold air between them. “Easy now,” Ryan whispered, barely moving his lips. His bear spray was in the backpack by his feet, but reaching for it might trigger the animal. The bear shifted its weight and took a slow step forward, its paws sinking softly into the damp soil. Ryan’s whole body tensed. Then, unexpectedly, the bear tilted its head, almost curious, as if trying to figure him out.

Seconds stretched into what felt like hours. Ryan could hear nothing but the pounding in his chest. He took one cautious step back, his boot snapping a twig. The sound echoed like a gunshot. The bear snorted, releasing a cloud of breath. Ryan flinched, waiting for it to charge. But it didn’t. Instead, the animal turned its head toward the woods behind it and made a low, muffled grunt—soft, almost like a call. Ryan frowned. Then he heard another noise: faint rustling deeper in the trees.

The bear’s ears twitched. It looked back at Ryan once more, then began walking slowly away, dragging something heavy in its jaws. His fear eased, replaced by confusion. The bear wasn’t attacking it was carrying something.