The bull charged the final few steps.

People screamed.

The announcer dropped the microphone.

But the boy didn’t run.

He closed his eyes for one second and held his hand higher.

Then the impossible happened.

The bull stopped.

So close that its breath moved the boy’s hair.

The whole arena froze.

The boy opened his eyes and whispered, “Thunder…”

The bull’s ears twitched.

Its huge head lowered slowly.

Not to attack.

To touch the boy’s hand.

A sound broke from the crowd.

Half gasp.

Half prayer.

The announcer stared in disbelief.

“How does that kid know that bull’s name?”

The boy pressed his shaking palm to the animal’s forehead and started crying.

“My dad raised him.”

A rodeo handler at the gate went pale.

The boy turned toward the bleachers, tears streaking through the dust on his face.

“They said my father ran away.”

His voice cracked.

“But he didn’t.”

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a worn leather bracelet.

The bull pushed its nose against it instantly.

The handler looked sick.

Because he recognized it.

Everyone did.

It had belonged to Miguel Reyes, the trainer who vanished the night before the championship.

The boy pointed at the handler with trembling fingers.

“My dad hid me under the trailer before they took him.”

The arena went dead silent.

The handler stepped back.

Too late.

The bull moved between him and the boy.

Protective.

Heavy.

Certain.

The boy looked at Thunder through tears.

“He waited for you,” he whispered. “Just like I did.”

Then the bull let out a low, broken sound that made even the toughest men in the arena look away.

Because it didn’t sound like rage.

It sounded like grief.