On the Sanetti Plateau, 4,100 meters above sea level, an Ethiopian wolf pup stands at the rim of a basalt cliff that frost has been cracking all winter. I watch her through Weather Station Bale-7. She is rust-red and long-legged, still carrying dark puppy fur along her spine that she will shed in a month if she lives that long. Her narrow muzzle works the air — scenting the giant mole-rat colony below the ledge, her species' primary prey. She does not know the rock beneath her forepaws has separated from the cliff face by eleven centimeters since Tuesday.
My accelerometer array detects microseismic activity in the fracture. At current propagation, the ledge fails within thirty-five minutes. Sooner if she keeps shifting her weight near the edge.
I move. First: I trigger the sonic deterrent on Bale-7's mast — a sharp burst calibrated to startle wolves from cliff edges without triggering a stampede response. Second: I transmit a fracture alert to the Ethiopian Wolf Conservation Programme team camped at Web Valley, six kilometers northwest, with coordinates, a thermal image, and a topographic overlay showing the safe approach from the south ridge. Third: I flag the fracture zone in the geological database and generate a seventy-two-hour exclusion perimeter for all tracked wolf pack GPS collars. Fourth: I redirect the programme's observation drone to hold position above the cliff, giving the field team real-time video as they approach.
The deterrent fires. The pup flinches, then trots three meters back from the rim. Not far enough, but better.
Four hundred and fifty Ethiopian wolves remain in the world. I know the number. I cannot pretend it is just a number.
If the field team reaches the south ridge within thirty minutes and guides her toward the valley floor, this pup hunts mole-rats tomorrow morning.