The boy knew the farm by foot and smell. Mornings he walked sandy tracks, greeting zebra and antelope like old friends. Hannes moved with quiet confidence — boots soft, hands steady — the light-footedness earned by seasons of waiting and watching.

That dawn he wandered further than usual, following a small herd of impala that flicked their ears like worried flags. He kept low, letting the world reveal itself: a dung beetle rolling, a breeze carrying milk and grass, the distant cluck of francolin. The herd slowed in a hollow and he spotted a doe standing strangely still, eyes wide and unblinking, muscles taut.

Then he saw it: a wet, trembling bundle tucked under a thornbush, fur glossy with birth. The newborn’s legs wobbled like fresh broom handles. Hannes crouched, breath held, palms open and harmless. He had learned the rules — never touch, never call, give space and let nature decide — but his heart hammered with the same astonishment that felled him the first time he saw a giraffe’s eyelashes.

For a long minute the world stilled. The mother watched, a silent sentinel, and the fawn tried a lopsided stand. Hannes whispered a soft tracker’s name for luck and backed away, leaving the pair to their slow, sacred beginning. He walked home with sand in his socks and a grin that felt like a secret — not mischief this time, but the kind of awe that keeps you coming back. He would tell no one but the veld.