She taps the map again. “This isn’t random pressure. It’s strategic.”
“Yes.”
“They’re herding,” she says. “Testing reaction times.”
I glance at her. “You see it.”
“I see escalation,” she corrects. “And I see a system that assumed avoidance would always be enough.”
“It was,” I say. “Until it wasn’t.”
She folds her arms. “So what aren’t you telling the pack yet?”
I hesitate.
She catches it instantly. “There it is.”
“They don’t know how close this came to spilling last winter,” I admit. “Or how narrowly we avoided exposure.”
Her jaw tightens. “And you were going to keep that from me too.”
“Yes.”
“Until when?” she asks.
“Until I convinced myself it was safer.”
She exhales slowly. “You understand why that can’t happen again.”
“I do.”
“Good,” she says. “Because if this turns violent, I won’t survive being uninformed.”
I nod. “You’ll have everything I have. Updates. Assessments. Warnings.”
“And disagreement?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Even if I think you’re wrong?”
“Especially then.”
She studies me for a long moment. Then: “You’re not just choosing me. You’re choosing friction.”
“Yes.”
“Good,” she says. “Friction creates heat. Heat reveals cracks.”
Outside, the forest shifts again.
Ellie doesn’t flinch.
“Then we’re not avoiding this anymore,” she says.
“No,” I agree. “We’re preparing.”
“Where I stopped pretending avoidance was enough.”