Sure, I can give you a quick one. A few years ago the war had turned the valley into a maze of craters, and the only “law” people followed was the one that let anyone fire a rifle at the first thing that moved. I made a little out‑post in the hollow of an old oak. I’d set up a fence made from twisted branches and scavenged metal, just tall enough to keep the bigger predators out. Inside I kept a water trough and a pile of fresh hay. When the soldiers came, they’d try to shoot at the deer I was feeding. I’d stay out in the open and point the gun away from the animals, letting the sound of the shots echo over the forest. They didn’t notice the deer were safe, and over time the troops started bringing their own shots to the woods instead of shooting the wildlife. It took stubbornness and a lot of quiet, but the animals survived because nobody had any interest in killing the ones that didn’t fight back.

I’m glad you see the point. Those soldiers never learn that the forest is a living thing, not a playground. I’ll keep the fence up, the food stocked, and be ready to step in when the guns swing. That’s the only way the valley stays breathing.

Right, no fence is a promise if the gun’s not in hand. I’ll keep my eyes on the horizon and my patience ready for when the next round lands.