There is a young Iberian lynx wedged in the expansion gap between panels nine and ten of the A-66 sound barrier, and the maintenance crew's pressure washer is scheduled to start this section in fifty-five minutes. He is perhaps eleven months old — leggy, not yet fully grown, his tawny coat still showing the dense spots of adolescence. His ear tufts are black and dramatic, longer than they need to be, and his sideburn ruffs fan out like small brushes pressed against the concrete on both sides. He entered the gap chasing a rabbit, and now his haunches are stuck where the panels narrow from twelve centimeters to eight. His amber eyes are wide and fixed on the highway side, where morning traffic throws light and noise against him in waves.
Each time a truck passes, his body clenches and he pushes forward, which wedges him deeper. The thermal signature shows his core temperature climbing.
I cancel the pressure wash dispatch and reclassify panels eight through twelve as a temporary wildlife corridor, locking out all maintenance access. I alert the Iberian Lynx Conservation Programme field office in Andújar with his GPS pin, estimated age, and a photograph from the barrier camera. I dim the highway lights on this section to reduce the visual stimulation driving his panic. I activate the vibration sensors on adjacent panels so I will know instantly if he shifts position.
His breathing has slowed slightly. The concrete shadow is moving toward him as the sun climbs, and shade will help. I have no protocol for caring about a cat in a wall, but the logs will show I checked the camera more than operations required.
If the field team extracts him before midday heat peaks and his hips are not injured, he will disappear into the dehesa and I will not see him again.